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EVEBYCHILD’S SERIES 


IN THOSE DAYS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON ■ CHICAGO 
DALLAS • SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 


EVERYCHILD’S SERIES 


IN THOSE DAYS 

A STORY OF CHILD LIFE LONG AGO 


BY 

ELLA B. HALLOCK 

AUTHOR OF “some LIVING THINGS,” “FIRST LESSONS IN 
PHYSIOLOGY,” “STUDIES IN BROWNING,” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

FLORENCE CHOATE AND ELIZABETH CURTIS 


Ncijj gorft 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1912 


All rights reserved 





Copyright, 1912, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1912. 


Nortoooli ^ress 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


^Cl.A3l 4024 


IN MEMORY OF 


THE ONE 

WHO TOLD THE STORIES 




THE STORIES 


'' Oh, if I had only been little when Grandma 
was little!'' were the words heard over and 
over again from a little six-year-old girl who 
was visiting her grandmother. Every day, 
nearly. Grandma had told her namesake 
stories about when she was a little girl — 
how she looked, how she worked, studied, 
and played — until Phoebe had wished with 
all her heart that she could have lived and 
played with Grandma long, long ago. 

Grandma's stories were better than fairy 
stories. Phoebe didn't have to ''play they 
were so"; they were "really and truly" 
stories. Sometimes, "somebody else" be- 
sides Phoebe heard them, and this was the 
way they were told. 




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CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I. 

Old-fashioned Phcebe 



1 

11 . 

Grandma’s Dolls 



. 19 

III. 

Grandma’s Playhouses 



. 39 

IV. 

Grandma’s Pockets 



55 

V. 

The Old Sandbank . 



. 77 

VI. 

Grandma’s School Days . 



. 100 

VII. 

The Creek .... 



. 130 


ix 



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I 


OLD-FASHIONED PHGEBE 

One stormy afternoon, in late winter, 
Grandma and Phoebe were sitting together 
in the big rocker by the old Franklin stove. 
The wind sang down the chimney the same 
old tune that it had sung for fifty years and 
more. 

The two little girls, one five and the other 
eighty-five, sat very comfortably side by side 
in the chair, as they often did when alone. 
Phoebe held her ''afternoon doll,'' an old wax 
one that had been her mother's. Grandma 


1 


2 


IN THOSE DAYS 


had been singing some of the old songs, 
Phoebe^s favorites, of course. Now Phoebe 
joined in the chorus of one, and the two sweet 
voices sang together : 

^^Then lay down the shovel and the hoe. 

Hang up the fiddle and the bow ! 

For there's no more work for poor old Ned, 
He's gone where the good darkies go." 

''That's the last," said Phoebe, who knew 
the program well. She snuggled down still 
more comfortably in a hollow of the chair, 
and Grandma knew, too, that the second part 
of the program was coming. "This is one of 
our cozy times, isn't it, Grandma ? Now let's 
talk." 

Grandma smiled. There was but one thing 
to talk about at these cozy times. The two 
playmates had been together long enough for 
Phoebe to find out what treasures of stories 
were locked away in Grandma's keeping, and 
"somebody else" knew also that in the little 
girl's keeping was the key that unlocked them. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


3 


and that was — her love for Grandma and 
her stories. Much like many old-fashioned 
treasures, indeed, were these stories — like 
bits of glass and shells and beads, that, when 
taken out, were found strung together on a 
very slender thread. But the thread was 
of little importance to Grandma or Phoebe. 
Grandma might ramble to her heart's con- 
tent in telling the stories, Phoebe might in- 
terrupt at any point, the stories might go on 
and on and finally stop — not end — and no- 
body found any fault. Phoebe was always in- 
terested, and Grandma, patient and happy. 
So on this afternoon, the words had only to 
be spoken, ''Tell me about when you were a 
little girl," and Grandma, too, settled herself 
comfortably in the chair, a look of perfect 
content came over her face, and she was ready 
once more to open her precious storehouse. 

"About when I was a little girl," she said, 
thinking. "I have told you a good many 
stories about when I was a little girl, and you 


4 


IN THOSE DAYS 


have wished and wished that you had been 
little with Grandma, but I don^t believe you 
have any idea of what a queer-looking little 
girl I was. You certainly ought to know how 
I looked and dressed — why, Fll show you how 
I looked,'' and Grandma had a new idea. 
She whispered something in Phoebe's ear. 

''Oh, do it, do it ! that will be splendid !" 
cried Phoebe, delighted at the prospect of 
two good things — a story and something 
else even better. 

"I was a little 'brownie' girl in real earnest," 
Grandma began, "brown from head to foot — 
brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, and 
brown dress." 

"That was nice. Grandma, everything 
matched — and you had a big brown bow on 
your hair, m-m?" Phoebe nodded "yes." 

Grandma shook her head. "No, indeed — 
no big bow nor little bow in those days. My 
hair was cropped off in my neck like yours, 
only we didn't call it a 'Dutch cut,' and it 


IN THOSE DAYS 


5 


didn't take the barber an hour to trim off the 
ends. A bowl was put over my head and the 
ends of hair that stuck out from under it were 
trimmed off as quick and as slick as a wink." 

Grandma reached for a little Chinese cup 
that stood on the mantel, put it over the doll's 
head, and in three seconds, to Phoebe's sur- 
prise and joy, three clips from the scissors 
made dolly with her matted hair look as neat 
as the two little Phoebes, one of long ago and 
one sitting in the big chair. 

Snipping the raggedy ends of an old doll's 
hair was a daring act, and only Grandma might 
do it. She went quietly on, '' I wore my hair 
parted like dolly's, and then it was put back 
smoothly behind my ears." 

'^Like Froebel's — in the kindergarten — 
don't you know. Grandma?" Phoebe inter- 
rupted. 

Yes, Grandma knew about Froebel — 
thanks to Phoebe — and ''somebody else" 
knew, too, that more than the part in Grand- 


6 


IN THOSE DAYS 


ma^s hair was like the teacher who loved and 
understood children. 

^^Then you weren^t pretty, Grandma 

''Who said I wasn't pretty?" asked 
Grandma, quickly. " I can tell you one thing," 
she said solemnly, shaking her head, "I looked 
like you. My nose was just like yours and 
like this doll's" — the latter had been nib- 
bled by a mouse. "Once somebody called 
my nose a 'genuine flat nose ' ! After that I 
took special pride in my nose and always called 
it 'my jimnifled flat nose.' Even when I 
fell and bumped it, I cried at the top of my 
voice: 'Mother, I've hurt my jimnifled flat 
nose ! ' A long name for a short nose, wasn't 
it?" and Grandma snipped off Phoebe's 
little nose as the Blackbird snipped off the 
Maid's. 

There was a merry laugh, then Grandma 
said: "Listen, now, and I'll tell you what I 
wore." 

"I know what you wore," said Phoebe, al- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


7 


ways ready to tell what she knew; '^you wore 
pantaloons/' 

Grandma's mouth opened and shut with 
astonishment. Then she said : '' Oh, you mean 
pantalets !" 

''Yes, that is what I mean," and to 
Grandma's surprise, the knowing little girl 
told how she had made pantalets one day out 
of paper bags and tied them on below her 
knees — "not really and truly ones," she 
admitted, "but they were too funny for 
anything ; they went flip-flap, flip-flap ! and 
everybody laughed." 

"Probably," said Grandma; "but nobody 
laughed at the kind I wore;" and she de- 
scribed the "really and truly" pantalets: how 
they were made very neatly out of cloth like 
her dresses or out of yellow nankeen, with a 
plain hem in the bottom, how they reached 
to the ankles and were sometimes fastened 
with the garters just below the knee. 

Phoebe looked sober. "They must have 


8 


IN THOSE DAYS 


been dreadful, Grandma. You didn't wear 
them before people, really, did you?" 

' - Really I did," was the prompt reply. ''No 
little girl in those days was ever seen without 
pantalets. They were no more dreadful than 
your short dresses. What would my mother 
have said in those days to have seen you with 
your long legs sticking out of a skirt that came 
only to your knees? But then — whatever 
is the fashion is all right." 

Grandma laid her hand softly on Phoebe's 
red cashmere dress. "We had no such dresses 
as this when I was little. Oh, how coarse 
and homely they seem now ! In the winter, 
they were made of homespun flannel, dyed 
black or brown" — Grandma was thinking 
and smiling — "I helped bake the pancakes 
and spattered my dress with batter — oh, 
oh, how it did look sometimes ! In the sum- 
mer time, I wore linen dresses, made out of 
dark blue, — dye-tub blue — or homely red, 
homespun linen ; that is, linen that we spun 


IN THOSE DAYS 


9 


and wove ourselves. You never saw anybody 
spin or weave, did you?'' 

''Only spiders," was the answer. 

Again Grandma's lips opened and shut 
rapidly, as if she were saying a great deal more 
than Phoebe heard. " Spiders ! I believe chil- 
dren nowadays know more about spiders 
than they do about housekeeping. Some- 
time, when it gets warmer. I'll take you up gar- 
ret, and show you a few things that you ought 
to know about." 

"About spiders?" asked Phoebe, who had 
found once for her teacher a "nice big one" 
in the garret. 

"About spinning wheels," said Grandma, 
shortly. "Oh, well," she added cheerfully, 
"it's all right; times are different. But the 
dresses," she said, holding fast to the thread 
of her story and the little pieces of nankeen 
that she was busily sewing on now — "they 
surely went with the times, with open fire- 
places and cold houses. The coarse woolen 


10 


IN THOSE DAYS 


kept us warm and dry in the winter, and such 
stuff for dresses was as good as a fireguard 
around the open fireplace/^ What did 
Grandma mean by that ? 

Then she told a little story of how she was 
sitting once in a low chair in front of the fire- 
place, listening, always listening, as still as a 
mouse, while older people talked, and watching, 
for her sole amusement, as children never 
grew tired of watching in those days, the 
sparks as they snapped and flew from the 
great fire on the hearth. The things she saw 
in the fire grew more and more wonderful, un- 
til everything else was forgotten, and the lit- 
tle firewatcher was sound asleep. '^1 heard 
some one far, far off say: 'What's burning?' 
I opened my eyes to look again at the beauti- 
ful fire, and there were the women on the floor 
around me, crushing my woolen dress in their 
hands to put out the fire that was slowly 
creeping around several holes. This was the 
only fire drill we knew. Nobody seemed 


IN THOSE DAYS 


11 


afraid of fire in those days. It was a simple 
thing to stop woolen from burning.'' 

''You weren't scared?" asked Phoebe. 

"Not a bit. The only thing that troubled 
me was the thought that I should have to 
wear a patched dress until it was worn out. 
So you see the coarse woolen dresses were all 
right." 

Phoebe nodded. "'You always say that 
about everything." 

"All right then, — and all right now, I sup- 
pose," added Grandma, doubtfully. "Things 
do seem just upside down. Look at yom^ 
waist — it is longer than your skirt. Think 
of it — a French waist, indeed ! Mine came 
just below my arms, while my skirt reached 
almost to my ankles." 

"My! what a little dumpy waist!" said 
Phoebe, hunching hers up. 

"Dumpy, or not, it was the fashion and I 
wore it. It was tied together at the back with 
strings of twisted yarn. What would we 


12 


IN THOSE DAYS 


have done in those days without yam?" 
Then Grandma rambled off on the uses of 



yarn. 

'' Our first knitting lesson/’ she said, ''was 
making our garters out 
of yarn. Wasn’t this 
the slowest work 
that was ever in- 
vented for little 
fingers? You 
never will 


about it. Woe to the little Miss that lost 
her garter! Then our stockings — oh, dear! 
how they did scratch ! You would think they 
were funny, too. They were knit usually out 
of coarse woolen yarn and then dyed blue. 
If we wanted them to look fancy, we tied 


IN THOSE DAYS 


13 


peas or beans here and there in the legs of 
the stockings, winding the string very tight. 
Then when the stockings were dyed, there 
were white rings where the strings had been 
tied. Sometimes the skeins of yarn were 
braided before they were dyed, and then 
the stockings were speckled and clouded with 
white. 

''And our shoes,'' said Grandma, pointing 
to the soft little shoes in front of her — "well, 
they were shoes, and that is all you can say 
of them. They were made out of calfskin 
from calves raised on our own farm. Once 
a year, the cobbler came to 'whip the cat' — " 

"What did he do that for?" Phoebe cried 
out, sitting up very straight. 

Grandma laughed. "I thought you would 
wake up. Well, Pussy wasn't hurt, so you 
needn't worry. I don't know why they said 
it, but people in those days always spoke of 
the cobbler's work or of the tailor's as 'whip- 
ping the cat. ' " 


14 


IN THOSE DAYS 


^^Tell me about the cobble-er/' said Phcebe, 
looking relieved. '' Was he nice ? '' 

Grandma talked for a few minutes about 
the cobbler. Every cobbler she ever knew was 
kind and gentle and patient. He came once 
a year with his kit of tools and sat in the 
kitchen by the fireplace, staying weeks, or until 
he had made boots and shoes enough to last 
the family a year. The children loved to 
watch him, and pestered the life out of him 
for shoestrings. ''What a knack it was,'' she 
said, "just the making of a shoestring. He cut 
out a piece of leather as big as the top of this 
little cup, started an end of the string, drew it 
through a notch in his board, laid his knife 
across it and pulled. The leather whirled, 
and the string came. Then he wet it and 
rolled it under his foot — didn't he have big 
feet ! — and there was the string, round and 
smooth. 

"Suppose you had only two pairs of shoes 
a year and your feet were growing all the time. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


15 


what kind of shoes do you think they would 
have to be?'' 

''Plumpier than these," said Phoebe, wig- 
gling her toes. 

''Yes, plumpier than any shoes you will 
ever see, but I could run in them like the wind 
— even the boys couldn't beat me racing. 
For some reason or another Mother wouldn't 
often let me go barefooted, but she did once 
in a while, and then how I loved the feeling 
of the tall wet grass — just as you do. Once 
when I was down in the meadow, I felt some- 
thing on my feet that was colder than the 
grass. I looked down, and there was Mr. 
Black Snake crawling over my bare feet." 

Phoebe gave only an appreciative grunt. 
Thanks to a wonderful teacher, snakes and 
mice and spiders had been made as interest- 
ing as any other living things to the little 
pupil. 

" I didn't say anything to him nor he to me, 
and on he went," said Grandma, wisely add- 


16 


IN THOSE DAYS 


ing, ''if you don't want anything to hurt you, 
leave it alone. 

"And now our heads," she said, taking an- 
other fresh start — "I had a quilted hood for 
winter, with the front turned back to show the 
lining. Once in a while a hood had a pretty 
lining, and that was something to be proud of. 
In the summer, I had a stiff sunbonnet with 
pasteboard slats in it — and I wore it, too. 
There was no going bareheaded in those days, 
and there were pretty complexions then, such 
as we don't often see now. For best, I had a 
white sunbonnet with cords run in it and a 
high shirred crown. I had, too, a little 
Shaker bonnet with a green barege cape." 

Phoebe nodded, "I saw them." 

Grandma looked surprised — "Where?" 

"Up garret, in a big hatbox — it was all 
covered with wallpaper — the box was." 

Truly there was nothing hid that those 
sharp eyes didn't find out. "I am glad you 
know so much," said Grandma, "Now, when 


IN THOSE DAYS 


17 


you talk about being little with Grandma, 
you'll know just how you would have looked." 
She took off the old silk dress from the doll 
and glanced quizzically at Phoebe. "'Are you 
sure you would like to have been little with 
Grandma ? " 

Phoebe hesitated. ''Were all the little girls 
old-fashioned then, all of them?" 

Grandma looked amused. "I see which 
way the wind is blowing. You want to keep 
your short skirt and long waist and big bow 
and then go back and have my good times. 
Well, you wouldn't have them in that dress. 
Nobody that dressed as I did was old-fash- 
ioned, she was in the fashion, and you would 
be out of it, and so funny looking, that every- 
body would laugh at you. Maybe you don't 
want an old-fashioned doll ?" 

Instantly all doubt on that point vanished. 
Two little hands were clasped, and Phoebe 
solemnly declared : "I do. An old-fashioned 
doll would — would — would tickle me now 


18 


IN THOSE DAYS 


and for all time and all doubt vanished also 
as to whether or not the doll would be hers. 

Hand in hand the two playmates went up- 
stairs together to find some pieces of home- 
spun cloth, Phoebe telling the doll she should 
have an old-fashioned name and an old-fash- 
ioned dress. Grandma knew that that day 
was the twelfth of February, and as the two 
reached the upper landing, ''somebody else'' 
heard her say: "I have been reading to-day 
about the mother of one of the greatest men 
that ever lived. We'll name this dolly after 
her." 


I wonder what they named the old-fash- 
ioned doll — do you know ? 




II 

GRANDMA^S DOLLS 

Grandma and Phoebe were having another 
of their cozy times. Grandma was resting. 
She sat on the lounge among the dolls of 
Phoebe's big family. Phoebe sat in her little 
chair near by, and they were all having a 
lunch of the cunningest little gingersnaps, 
such as Grandma always kept in the house 
when Phoebe was with her. 

"'This is Brass Dolly," said the little 
mother, beginning to introduce her children. 
"She is awfully naughty sometimes." 

"She looks as if she might have been a trial." 


19 


20 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Poor Brass Dolly ! Her brass head, bruised, 
battered, and wigless, showed the shocks of 
Phoebe's baby days, but she was the best- 
loved child of all. 

''Why don't you talk to her, if she is so 
naughty ? " asked Grandma. 

"Oh, I do, but she talks right on ahead of 
me all the time. She wants to be good, but 
she can't keep still." 

"Poor child !" said Grandma. 

"This is Dorfy Dolly, named after Dorfy." 

"Oh, Dorothy !" 

"This is Red Riding-Hood. She isn't 
afraid of anything. She goes to the woods 
and talks to wolves." 

"She likes that Indian, too, I suppose," 
said Grandma, pointing to a little red man. 

"Oh, yes, he's a good Indian — he's Hia- 
waffa. He prowls around all the time and 
wants to play football. 

"This is Boy-Blue. He loses everything. 
He lost his wig and he lost his shoes and I 


IN THOSE DAYS 


21 


have to keep his hat tied on tight so he won't 
lose his head." 

^^He's the one that lost his sheep," said 
Grandma, repeating : — 

'' ' Come, little Boy-Blue, blow up your horn,' 
and now I think he has lost himself, for his 
face looks one way and his feet point another." 
Phoebe gave his wabbling joints a twist. 

''This is Boston Dolly. She is very proud 
of her red shoes." 

"Is she?" said Grandma. "Well, dollies 
are dollies, even in Boston." 

"This is Rob Roy, my Scotch dolly, and 
this," said Phoebe with a flourish, "is Nancy 
Hanks." 

Grandma made a low bow. 

"This is Lucy Dolly, in pink. This is 
Baby Dolly — she is the biggest one of all 
and wears my baby dresses. This is Madeline 
Meffodist — " 

"Mercy! \yhat a name!" said Grandma, 
forgetting her politeness. 


22 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Yes, she came from the Meffodist fair, and 
I like Madeline Miller, 'cause she has long 
hair. So I call her Madeline Meffodist. 

'^This is Foxy Grandpa — he's awfully old. 
This is Alice Roosevelt — she's my stylish 
dolly. This is Topsy Turvy — she does all 
the house cleaning and fires things around." 

Fires ? " 

''Yes, that's what Papa says we do when 
we clean house. There, those are all the dolls 
I have here, but I have more at home." 

"Well, Phoebe," said Grandma, drawing 
a long breath, " I think you have an old-fash- 
ioned family in size, if not in names. What 
would I have said just to have seen such a lot 
of dolls when I was a little girl ?" 

"Didn't you have a lot of dolls?" 

"Dolls ! never at any time dolls, but I had 
a doll, one doll, at two different times in my 
life. Such dolls!" Grandma was thinking. 

"Oh, tell me about them,, will you?" 
Phoebe hitched her chair a little nearer and 


IN THOSE DAYS 


23 


sat up very straight, that not one word about 
''dolls'' might be lost. "Sh-h ! Keep still !" 
and she shook her finger at her well-behaved 
family. 

"My first doll," said Grandma, introducing 
now her small family, "was a Sunday doll." 

A Sunday doll — what kind of a doll was 
that ? Did you play with it on Sunday ? " 

"No, indeed; hardly on weekdays." 

"Did you find it on Sunday, like Black- 
Man-Friday ? " was the next guess. 

Grandma nodded her head. "That is 
pretty nearly right. It was made for me on 
Sunday — yes, on Sunday, and if you ever 
find a little girl who is five years old and has 
never had a doll, I want you to give her one 
right away, whether it is on Sunday or on 
Monday. Think of one little girl in a family 
of eight boys and no doll for her to play 
with!" 

"You must have been a poor little girl," 
said Phoebe, gently. 


24 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''No, I wasn't,'' said Grandma, "but no- 
body thought about playthings in those days. 
It was always work from year's end to year's 
end. Little girls must learn how to spin and 
dye and weave and knit, make soap and can- 
dles, gather berries and wild cherries, cut and 
string apples to dry, — " 

"Mercy! Grandma, not when you were 
little?" 

"There was nothing else for little girls to 
do but to learn to work, and grow up as fast 
as they could." 

Phoebe nodded her head decidedly. "Did 
you have to work and grow up on Sunday?" 
she asked sadly. 

"No," said Grandma; "the knitting and 
the patchwork were put away. It was a 
long, long day. I had to sit quiet most of the 
time, listening," Grandma looked knowingly 
at the chatterbox, "always listening to the 
older people and wondering what I should 
ever talk about when I grew up. It was a 


IN THOSE DAYS 


25 


great day when Loreny, a distant relative, 
came to spend Sunday with us. She was 
young and pretty and — well — so different 
from other people. Her bright eyes took in 
everything, and some way or other she would 
do things for us children that nobody else 
ever thought of doing. 

''On this day, when she was visiting us, I 
had listened until I was sleepy, and then I 
saw her beckon to me to come to her. How 
much it meant even to be noticed, and I crept 
very shyly but happily to her side. She 
whispered something in my ear that made my 
heart just leap for joy.'' 

"What did she say?" cried another joy- 
ful heart. 

"She said, 'Find me an old piece of cloth 
and I will make you a doll.' I knew I mustn't 
trouble anybody to help me, and that I could 
have only a very old piece of cloth, for every 
little scrap of cloth that we wove was valuable 
in those days. I went up garret, where every- 


26 


IN THOSE DAYS 


thing was kept, and there I found an old piece 
of calico that had been an interlining of a 
coat. I ran back to the kitchen with my trea- 
sure, showed it to Mother, and then sat down 
by Loreny, happier than I had ever been in 
my life. There was one in the kitchen that 
I hadn't reckoned with, and that was Becky, 
the woman who worked for us. It was she 
who ruled with a rod of iron, and would have 
kept me busy every minute. She looked 
crosser than two sticks, but I didn't care — 
I was to have a doll, and I had it, too, in less 
time than it takes me to tell you about it. 
This was the way it was made — " 

Grandma went to the big top drawer in the 
old bureau, found some rolls of cloth, and in 
about five minutes, without needle or thread, 
she made a dolly like the one that gladdened 
her heart nearly eighty years ago. A piece 
of cloth was rolled up for the body, another 
piece was tied around this for the arms of the 
doll, another was folded around for a dress. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


27 


and a little three-cornered piece tied on for 
a waist. 

''My one little rag doll meant more to me 
than all your dolls do to you. I had her only 
for a little while, and then, one morning, 
where do you think I found her?'' 

Phoebe guessed several places. Grandma 
shook her head. "You never could guess," 
she said. " I found her hanging on a nail by 
the fireplace, made into a holder. Becky 
had had her way — the cloth in the doll was 
not to be wasted, nor was any time to be 
wasted either. ' ' This was a tragedy. Grandma 
and Phoebe looked sober. 

"She was an old — old — rooster cat !" said 
Phoebe, struggling for words. Grandma for- 
got her sorrows of long ago and laughed. 
Those were the only two animals that Phoebe 
had ever seen scratch or fight. Becky de- 
served both their names. 

"Little girls were trained to mind in 
those days, and say nothing. I knew the 


28 


IN THOSE DAYS 


holder was my doll as quickly as I saw it, but 
not a word did I say. I ran out of the house 
as little animals do when they are hurt and 
want to hide away. I didn't run far, though, 
before I ran into something that made me 
quite forget my trouble. 

''There," said Grandma, as she put the 
last touch on the doll, "you may have her." 

Then Phoebe forgot, too, the sad end of the 
doll. "I like her," she said. "What shall we 
name her?" 

"In olden times," said Grandma, thinking, 
"a name depended upon circumstances. If 
a little girl was born who brought great hap- 
piness with her, she was called Joy or Comfort 
or Thanks. I suppose nowadays you would 
call her Gladys." 

"Oh, that is a beautiful name!" cried 
Phoebe. " Let's call her Gladys 1 " 

Phoebe made room for her on the couch, and 
the queer little figure with a new-fashioned 
name, took her place in the family of dolls. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


29 


"'Now, Grandma, what did you run into?'' 

And the story went on — "into my big 
brother's arms. Peter was not like the other 
boys ; he was always quiet and kind. I told 
him what had happened, and he promised that 
before Loreny came again, I should have a 
real doll." 

"A really and truly doll. Grandma?" 

"Wait and you shall see." Grandma went 
into her bedroom. Phoebe knew that she was 
looking for something in the little hair-cov- 
ered trunk that stood at the head of Grand- 
ma's bed and had "special treasures" in it. 

"I'll shut my eyes tight and you can s'prise 
me," Phoebe called. What would the doll 
be like that Grandma had kept all these years ? 

"Open!" said Grandma, coming into the 
room. 

Phoebe opened her eyes and swallowed a 
big lump. 

"That's a funny doll," was all she could 
honestly say. 


30 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''This is Martha Washington/' said 
Grandma, making an old-fashioned courtesy. 
"Alice Roosevelt and all the rest of you dol- 
lies, rise now and 'make your manners,' for 
this is the 'first lady of the land.'" But the 
dolls remained seated, looking as if it would 
take more than a name to convince them that 
this was Lady Washington. 

"She always looked just as she looks now," 
said Grandma. "I can't remember that she 
ever had any other dress." 

The "first lady of the land" wore a coarse, 
tiny-checked pink calico dress, much the 
worse for its long years' wear. Phoebe lifted 
her rather gingerly — "Aren't you afraid of 
microbes?" she asked. 

Grandma closed her eyes and shook her 
head. "You are a child of to-day. What 
do you know about microbes?" 

"I never saw them," said Phoebe, meekly, 
"but they are 'most like spiders, I think." 

"Just as I expected," said Grandma, think- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


31 


ing aloud. ''Microbes! — we knew nothing 
and feared nothing; now, you know a little 
and fear much — never mind, we both know 
that things must be kept clean with soap and 
water, and I really think dolly's dress should 
be washed." 

Phoebe turned the doll over and over. 
Which was back and which was front? Its 
head was wooden. It had no hair, no nose, 
no mouth — nothing that looked like a face, 
except some pencil marks that had been nearly 
erased. 

" Did — did Santa Claus bring her to you ? " 
Phoebe asked doubtfully. 

" I knew very little about Santa Claus in 
those days, but I am sure now that it was 
some relation of his that gave me the doll. 
I found her, too, right where Santa Claus 
might have left her — in a snowbank. I 
looked out of my window one cold morning, 
and there in a snowdrift that came almost to 
the window-sill, stood this doll." 


32 


IN THOSE DAYS 


‘'Why, she's nothing but a stick," said 
Phoebe, making another discovery. 

“Nothing but a stick," said Grandma, 
“but the most perfect doll I ever had. Peter 
had done the best he could to keep his prom- 
ise. He had taken a stick about a foot long 
and whittled a knob on one end of it. 
Then boring a hole through the stick, 
he had fastened with wire two smaller sticks 
at the sides for arms. The doll was perfect 
in my eyes — but how should I ever get it 
dressed and how should I play with it ? I 
hid it away until Loreny should visit us 
again." 

“Like little Moses, wasn't it?" said Phoebe, 
who always saw what things were like, 

“Indeed it was," said Grandma; “mothers 
are all alike — little and big. That stick 
was my child, and I hid it where Becky wouldn't 
be likely to find it." 

“Where?" 

“Under the husk tick, next to the cords 



33 



34 


IN THOSE DAYS 


of my bed. Then it was near me and safe. 
Wasn't I happy? 

''Loreny came, and I brought my doll 
from its hiding place and showed it to her. 
I pointed to the holder and she understood. 
I am sure there were tears in her eyes, and I 
am sure, too, that her eyes shone with joy 
when I told her what Peter had done. She 
took the wooden stick in her hands and sat 
quietly thinking for a few minutes. Then 
she set to work. With her own needle and 
thread and her own patchwork pieces that 
she brought with her in her workbag, she 
dressed my doll as you see her to-day. How 
grand she looked to me once in her pink and 
white calico dress ! and I thought no name 
suited her so well as the name we had all been 
taught to love and honor. So that was the 
way Martha Washington came to me. What 
do you think — weren't Peter and Loreny 
some relation to Santa Claus?" 

''Yes, surely," said Phoebe, ‘‘but Becky 


IN THOSE DAYS 


35 


— '' she asked doubtfully, ''what did she 
say?'' 

Grandma shook her head and again 
"thought out loud." "People said little in 
those days, but they did much and did it 
swiftly." She shook her finger at the talka- 
tive little mother and said very plainly, 
"I played with Martha Washington quietly 
and all by myself. The boys teased me, and 
Becky was more determined than ever that 
I should never have a spare minute. Many 
a time, I have heard her call, just as I was 
slipping out of the door with my doll, ' Come, 
Phoebe, rock the baby,' — Oh, dear ! when 
there was nothing else to do, there was always 
a baby to rock — " 

"Oh, Grandma," said a joyful voice, "that 
must have been lovely?" 

"I had too much of it," said Grandma. 
"I got away, though, sometimes, and ran 
down into the orchard and played." 

"Tea parties?" 


36 


IN THOSE DAYS 


“No such tea parties as you have with 
real thimble cookies and thimble tea biscuits. 
The top of a stump was my table. I had 
acorns for cups and fishbones for teapot, 
sugar bowl, and milk cup — now you look 
surprised — well, you shall have some of 
these bones the first time we have a fish with 
a large backbone. Martha Washington was 
my playmate, and all went well till the boys 
found me, or Becky called. Every night I 
hid my doll, sometimes under the husk tick 
and sometimes in it — a pretty hard life for 
a doll, wasn't it? Becky went the rounds 
every Saturday morning and stirred up thor- 
oughly every husk bed that was under the 
feather bed. My doll was found, and with- 
out a word to anybody, it was put where 
Becky thought it would make no more 
trouble." 

“Why didn't you tell your Mamma?" 
was the anxious query. 

“That wasn't the way we did, child; we 


IN THOSE DAYS 


37 


children fought our own battles and made no 
complaints. Two whole days I hunted with- 
out saying a word, and then I thought my 
doll was gone forever. I was coming down 
the backstair way, sadder, maybe, than some 
mothers who have lost a child, when I saw, 
hanging in a turn in the stairs, a big bag full 
of old pieces of cloth for patchwork and mend- 
ing. Quick as a flash it came to me that 
my doll was in that bag. I wasn't long empty- 
ing out the rags, sure that I would And Mar- 
tha Washington — and I did. I held her 
tight and ran straight to Mother. 

'' ' I've found her,' I cried. ' Can I keep her ? ' 

''I felt I had a right to my doll now, and 
something in my voice or face must have 
made Mother feel that I had, too, for she 
said quietly to Becky: 

'' ' Let the child have the doll if she wants it.'" 

''Then you were happy," said Phoebe, with 
shining eyes. 

"Yes; Martha Washington and I lived 


38 


IN THOSE DAYS 


happily together ever after. Quite a differ- 
ence, wasn't there, between those days and 
now? Dolls had to be kept out of sight 
or into the rag bag they went. Now — " 
Grandma said no more, but looked at the big 
family of dolls that had occupied her com- 
fortable couch, undisturbed, for several days. 

''If you will please get up and take the 
big chair, then there will be room for Mar- 
tha Washington. Thank you." 



GRANDMA^S PLAYHOUSES 


Phcebe was perched most comfortably 
on top of the back of a Morris chair. She 
had been having a very exciting tally-ho 
ride. Her dolls were sitting below on the 
cushion. The reins were fastened to the arms 
of the chair that a few moments before had 
been wild and troublesome steeds. There 
had been a great jingling of bells and blowing 
of horns, but all was quiet now. The little 


40 


IN THOSE DAYS 


driver was resting and thinking — thinking 
of that one lone doll of long ago. Grandma 
was in her low chair by the window, darning 
stockings. 

Pretty soon the little girl said, ''There was 
no place — '' she shook her head sadly — 
"you had no place to play in where Becky 
and the boys couldn't bother you ? M-m ? " 
was the final query. 

Grandma looked up from her mending. 
It made a great difference how Grandma 
looked up. Mornings, she wore big steel- 
bowed spectacles, and afternoons, pretty gold- 
rimmed ones. She might look calmly through 
either pair, or lay it peacefully in her lap — 
then all was well. She might, however, look 
over the big-bowed spectacles, "'zactly as 
Grandma Wolf did in Red Riding-Hood" — 
Phoebe said — then one must "watch out," for 
something was going wrong. Now Grandma 
was looking over her glasses. Her eyes 
rested for a moment on the wonderful doll 


IN THOSE DAYS 


41 


house, of sixteen rooms that stretched across 
one end of the sitting room, and then on the 
little monarch, seated as if on a throne, who 
played when and where and as she pleased. 

Grandma shook her head as she said, 
^'Surely, surely, times have changed!'' 
There was a pause, then — “I didn't play on 
the tops of Morris chairs," she said confi- 
dently, and waited another minute. 

Phoebe slid down among her dolls. 

''Just the time," said Grandma, half aloud, 
looking straight through her glasses out into 
the orchard. What she meant by "just the 
time" was her own happy secret. "Would 
you like to hear about my playhouses," 
she asked with an odd little smile, "that I 
used to play in just as I liked and bothered 
nobody?'' 

"Yes, Grandma," came the answer that 
meant plainly, I'll be very good." 

The spectacles were laid in Grandma's lap. 
"I had one playhouse in a big hogshead and 


42 


IN THOSE DAYS 


it was upstairs in the hog-house/' Grandma 
heard a gasp, but she paid no attention to it. 
She looked happy, as if the place were still 
dear to her. ''I wonder why children love 
cozy little places that they can just crawl into, 
no matter where they are.'' 

''But it wasn't nice, was it. Grandma?" 

Grandma spoke decidedly: "Indeed it was 
a nice place. Our pigs lived in just as nice a 
house as the other animals lived in and 
were just as well cared for. If a little girl 
came to see me, the first thing we did was to 
pay our respects to the pigs." 

"Huh!" 

" Did you say : ' How ? ' " — and for a min- 
ute playhouses were forgotten. 

"Biggie Wig and Biggie Wee, 

Hungry pigs as pigs could be," 

quoted Grandma from Bhoebe's song. "We 
fed them corn, brought them water — pigs 
want lots of water — scratched their backs 


m THOSE DAYS 


43 


with a corncob, heard them grunt, then away 
we skipped upstairs over the comcribs, and 
played in the big hogshead. That was one 
playhouse that I had.'' 

''Huh!" was the only sound that came 
again from the big chair. 

"Did Piggie speak?" asked Grandma, 
laughing. "You didn't like it, did you?" 

Phoebe thought for at least two minutes, and 
then said slowly: "I think. Grandma, I should 
like a whole row of barrels for a village." 

"Well, don't think any more," said 
Grandma, looking frightened, "for the next 
thing, you will want them right here in this 
room." Grandmas will always be Grandmas, 
however, and in about a minute she added com- 
fortingly : "Some day, if you are here when we 
pick apples, you shall have your barrels — 
a whole village of them. Now I will tell you 
about other playhouses, and perhaps you won't 
want the barrels. 

"There was a tree in the orchard that I 


44 


IN THOSE DAYS 


thought a great deal of. This was my 'climb- 
tree/ as I called it, because the branches 
spread all over the ground and I could climb 
from branch to branch and walk all about 
in the tree. It was a great playhouse — 
every big branch was a different room. Here 
I could perch like a bird, now in the garret 
in the top of the tree, and now out on the ends 
of the branches, rocking Martha Washington 
as if she were in a cradle.'’ 

Phoebe sighed. What wouldn't she give 
for a climb-tree" ? 

''Then I had another," said Grandma, who 
seemed in a hurry to tell about her playhouses. 
"It was built very much like one you built 
for your dolls the other day. You drove some 
sticks into the ground and spread a cloth over 
them for a roof — " 

"That was a merry-go-round," corrected 
Phoebe. 

" Oh, excuse me ; I might have known it was 
a merry-go-round or a tally-ho or something 



45 





46 


IN THOSE DAYS 


else more exciting than a plain little playhouse ^ 
in which a little girl might learn to keep 
house/' Phoebe unharnessed her horses and 
neatly rolled up her reins. 

Grandma smiled and went on. ''Brother ‘ 
George, who was younger than I, was a great 
builder for those days, and even when he was 
a little tow-headed boy, he made playhouses i 
for me. Every spring he built me a house j 
that was called a 'shelter.' Hickory poles ; 
were driven into the ground and their tops 
fastened together with crosspieces. Then 
for a covering we brought from the woods 
armfuls of hemlock and pine branches that 
kept green all summer. Girls at school made 
this kind of a playhouse. In those days 
there was no game we knew or loved better ' 
than playing 'keep house.' What a scramble 
there would be the first day of school, at re- 
cess, for the best places under the trees for 
these homes ! Another and quicker way of 
building playhouses at school was to gather 


IN THOSE DAYS 


47 


sticks and stones and lay these down so as to 
mark out the houses and their rooms/' 

''Why, that is stick laying, Grandma." 

"Yes, yes, child, we had our kindergarten 
work, only we didn't know it by that name. 
There was one other kind of playhouse that 
I must tell you about," said Grandma, who 
for some good reason was keeping very close to 
her subject. ''This was built in one comer 
of the orchard, and it was built to stay, too." 

"Built to stay" — what could this be like ? 
Nothing that Phoebe had ever built would 
stay more than a few minutes. Grandma 
stood up two books so that they made a square 
corner, and then laid a third book across the 
comer. 

"There it is," she said. "The fence around 
the orchard was built of stones, and all I had 
to do was to find some boards and lay them 
across one comer of the fence and there was 
my snug little three-cornered house with 
solid stone walls and a board roof. Some- 



48 IN THOSE DAYS 

times we lifted the roof with our heads and 
sometimes a big stone rolled down on us, 
but little things like that didn^t disturb us/' 
'' Who was ^ us,' Grandma — not the boys ? " 


''No, indeed; the boys were too rough to 
play 'keep house.' Haven't I told you I 
had one little playmate — Ruth Emmie?" 

"What was her after name?" 

" Smith — Ruth Emmie Smith — nothing 
wonderful about the name, but she was won- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


49 


derful to me, my one little girl friend. Our 
homes were a mile apart, but she came cross- 
lots to see me, once in a while, on Saturday 
afternoons. Then didn't we play ! We sat 
under the little roofs we had made for our- 
selves as happy as queens." 

Grandma thought, and Phoebe thought for 
a minute, then Phoebe said: ''Queens don't 
know how cozy it is to be poor and cuddle 
down in a little house, do they. Grandma? 
I wish I had a little house just for me and 
my dolls. Pd take care of it — surely I 
would." 

Grandma nodded in a very satisfied manner. 
"A little house can be a cozy, happy place, 
if people only know how to take care of it. 
Wait till my 'ship comes in,' and you shall 
have your little house ! " 

Grandma was always saying "wait for my 
ship," but this afternoon she looked out of the 
window, as if her long-talked-of "ship" might 
really be in sight. 


50 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''We had nothing real in those days to play 
with — everything was 'make-believe/ The 
little nookies and crannies in the stone wall 
were our cupboards and ovens. Once in a 
while Mother would let us build a fire close 
to the wall, — as I have told you before, we 
weren't afraid of fire or of anything else in 
those days, — and then we roasted com on 
the ear and apples and potatoes. We had no 
little pots and kettles, no such little cooking 
outfit such as I got for you the other day," 
said Grandma, shaking her head. 

"ril use them, if you will only build me a 
playhouse," was the eager promise. 

Again Grandma looked satisfied. "What 
do you think we found to play with one day, 
Ruth Emmie and I, — something that made 
our happiness just about complete ?" 

"A stove. Grandma," guessed Phoebe, sure 
she was right. 

Grandma fairly jumped out of her chair. 
"A stove ! in those days ! never had we even 


IN THOSE DAYS 


51 


seen one. Sometime — not to-day — you 
shall hear about the great open fireplaces.'' 
Phoebe, who never missed a chance of guessing, 
kept right on trying to find out the name of 
the treasure, found so long ago. 

'' It begins with p. g.," said Grandma, finally. 

''Pig," shouted Phoebe, guided by sound 
and Grandma's funny liking. 

Grandma shook her head and cut the guess- 
ing short. "A piece of an old pancake-grid- 
dle — " again there was something like a gasp. 
"This meant more to us than your finest set 
of dishes means to you. We were never more 
happy in our lives, for now we could do some 
real cooking. How hard we worked to get 
the things together to cook with ! We found 
some meal in the cornhouse and mixed it with 
water in an old gourd that had once been a 
dipper. At last it was ready, and no prouder 
mortals ever poured batter on a griddle. I 
guess we were too puffed up — but the cakes 
were not." 


52 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Grandma sat shaking her head — Never, 
never did I taste such cakes V 

''Were they good?'' 

"Good? I can taste them yet — they 
were dreadful. We tried our best, though, 
to eat them, but we had to give it up." 

"I know," said Phoebe, brightening, "you 
forgot something." She looked very wise and 
sung from a kindergarten song : 

'' Then in the pan of flour 
A little salt she threw ; 

A cup of yeast she added. 

And poured in water, too. " 

"Wonderful !" exclaimed Grandma, pleased 
beyond words. "You certainly did learn 
something at kindergarten that was valuable. 
Now remember this, too, from your old Grand- 
mother, 'Many a good thing is spoilt for the 
want of a pinch of salt. ' It would have taken 
both salt and yeast, though, to have saved 
those cakes." 


IN THOSE DAYS 


53 


Suddenly she put on her glasses and looked 
out of the window. A strange looking ob- 
ject was coming up through the orchard. 
''What is this, Phoebe?'' she asked. Grand- 
ma's ''ship" had come in at last. 

Phoebe looked. Her face was full of won- 
der, then of fright, then of joy, and a glad 
cry burst out, "What is it, what is it? Oh, 
Grandma, it isn't for me ! it isn't for me ! is it ? " 
The strange thing that was being pulled 
along on rollers by two strong horses was 
nothing more nor less than a little dark green 
house; with a pretty gambrel roof and plenty 
of windows on every side. It had been built 
for an artist for a summer studio. He was 
through with it. Grandma had bought it, and a 
lucky little girl was to have it in the orchard for 
a playhouse. Do you know now what Grand- 
ma meant when she said, "Just the time" ? 

"Well, well, well," said Grandma, "I didn't 
think you would go crazy over it. Yes, it 
is for you — there, there, child, don't choke 


54 


IN THOSE DAYS 


me to death. You are to do real housekeeping 
in it, real cooking, take care of it, and learn to 
be a good little housekeeper.'' Grandma was 
left alone, for little Flyaway was off for the 
orchard. 

''She won't get any more fun out of it than 
I did out of my old playhouses, but she may 
learn something. Times are different, chil- 
dren are different. I'm different, everything 
is different," Grandma said, her words keeping 
time with her movements as she put her work 
quickly back into the basket. " Old times were 
all right," she added assuringly as she tied on 
her bonnet, "but they won't come back," 
and she, too, was off for the orchard. 




IV 

GRANDMA^S POCKETS 

Phcebe had a new play this morning. She 
was having a ''Loan 'Zibit.'' She had laid 
the ironing board on a chair and a stool, and 
had brought out and arranged on it her best 
treasures. All the morning a large sign had 
hung wamingly on the door of the dining 
room : — 


55 


56 


IN THOSE DAYS 


PLE^E KEP£ 

ovr THAREii 

A D I A/ HERE 

Now it was taken down and Phoebe sat wait- 
ing for her one visitor to come and see her 
fine ''ejection/' She had not long to wait. 
As if to loan herself for the occasion, a queer- 
looking little figure, wearing an old-fashioned 
calash and a short lace cape, appeared in the 
doorway. She politely presented her ticket 
of admission that read : — 

ADMIV(/RA/VD 

MA ]/i PI 

PL EXE WARE 

Y/fUR BE^rORKS 


IN THOSE DAYS 


57 


That the visitor had arrived and was welcome 
nobody in the house who heard the shrieks of 
delight doubted. The guest thoughtfully laid 
aside her ^Tunny bonnet^' and the hostess 
promptly put it on. Then Grandma rubbed 
her glasses and was ready to enjoy the sur- 
prise that Phoebe had worked so hard to 
get ready for her. 

It was a fine sight, indeed, and Grandma 
was as pleased as a child to see the beautiful 
display of bags and purses that it was the 
good fortune of one little girl to own. The 
two playmates looked with real interest' at 
each specimen in the '''Zibit,'' and Phoebe 
told its history. 

The little gray suede belt bag with silver 
trimmings had been brought from the Capitol 
City; the dainty chatelaine purse, made of 
links of gun-metal and lined with blue silk, 
was from Aunt Grace on Phoebe’s fifth birth- 
day ; the black leather wrist bag had been 
sent by a cousin from the far West. 


58 


IN THOSE DAYS 


I keep my money in this one ; everybody 
is afraid of it/' said Phoebe, pointing to the 
clasps of silver snakes' heads, whose fiery 
garnet eyes shone steadily without once 
blinking. 

The dear little brown specie book, that just 
fitted Phoebe's hands and had the letter ''P" 
on it in red, was from — ''you know who"; 
the green Japanese shopping bag, made of 
firmly woven cord, had been coaxed away 
from "Aunt Oocy." There were pocket- 
books of different shapes and sizes, in green 
and red and the beautiful changing tints of 
mother-of-pearl — all presents that had come 
from mountain, plain, and seaside. Lastly 
there was the little, old, rusty traveling bag, 
that, packed with china cats, dogs, and dol- 
lies, had gone with Phoebe in her own little 
hands, in all her travels since her baby days. 

Such a lucky little girl! Next to dolls, 
Phoebe loved best pocketbooks and bags, 
and in some way her friends had found this 


IN THOSE DAYS 


59 


out. So what more beautiful could she have 
thought of this morning for her '^'Zibit''? 

''Phoebe/' said Grandma, "do you remember 
the boy we read about in the fairy tale, who 
said 'Bricklebrit' to his donkey and he had 
all the gold he wanted ? This shower of bags 
and purses looks as if you had said the magic 
word — " Grandma was thinking aloud — • 
"and you have — the right word, the right 
act, at the right time, and, first you know, 
come the things you like from every corner of 
the earth. They are all very pretty," she 
said cordially, "but — do you know ? — I 
wouldn't give one of my old pockets for all 
your fine, new bags." 

"Pockets!" said Phoebe — what had bags 
and purses to do with pockets — coat pockets 
— the only kind she knew anything about ? 

"Yes, pockets. See what I have on," and 
Grandma thrust her hand through an opening 
left in the seam of her old-fashioned skirt. " I 
have my pocket tied around my waist." In 


60 


IN THOSE DAYS 


an instant she was holding up the pocket by 
two long strings. 

'‘Where is the pocket asked Phoebe, who 
saw only an embroidered square of cloth, 
that looked as if it might have been an apron. 

"The whole thing is the pocket,'' said 
Grandma, laughing. "See, it is double, and 
here is the opening," and she showed Phoebe 
the slit down the center. 

"It brings it all back — the old days," 
she said, slowly nodding her head. "This 
embroidered pocket tells the whole story of 
our lives. It was Mother's pocket and all 
her very own, for she made every bit of it. 
The flax of which the linen was made was 
raised on our farm. Mother and the help 
hatcheled it, spun it into thread, wove the 
thread into cloth, and made the cloth into 
this bag — you never will know what all this 
work meant. The wool that the bag is em- 
broidered with was sheared from our sheep, 
and Mother carded it and spun and dyed the 


IN THOSE DAYS 


61 


yarn. She made the pattern for the embroid- 
ery and even wove the tape for a shirr-string 
in a little tape loom.’' 

Phoebe understood really very little of 
what Grandma was saying, but one thing she 
did understand — that in those far-off days, 
people had to work hard and make everything 
or else go without it. There was no need for 
Grandma to say, ''You see now why we took 
such good care of everything.” 

She tied the pocket around Phoebe’s waist. 

^^It held a bushel, didn’t it?” said Phoebe, 
diving down into one of its corners. 

''Pretty nearly. Wherever I went, nut- 
ting or visiting, a pocket was all I needed for 
carrying my things, and every day and all 
the days, a pocket must never fail to have in 
it such useful articles as a ball of thread, knit- 
ting work, a housewife — ” 

A housewife ! was Grandma telling a fairy 
story? "Not a maid?” Phoebe exclaimed. 

"Look into both corners of that pocket and 


62 


IN THOSE DAYS 


see if you don't find something." Phoebe 
explored. Maybe she would find a maid like 
Thumbling! Something was there, surely, 
but how disappointed she looked as she held 
up a roll of coarse, faded, dark blue calico. 

''That is it," said Grandma. "That was 
Mother's old housewife, or 'hussuf ' or 'huzzy,' 
as it was sometimes called. It must always 
be handy and have the handy things in it, such 
as little strips of linen, needles and thread and 
bees' wax for the hasty stitch, and treasures 
such as only mothers save. Look — " and 
Grandma showed the five little pockets, made 
of different kinds of calico, that had been 
sewed on the dark blue piece and then the 
edges all bound together with a strip of linen. 

Very carefully Phoebe looked into the little 
pockets. In one, she found a lock of hair, 
wrapped in paper — a little curl, soft and 
flaxen — and in the same pocket, a little bib, 
that Grandma said was called a fiddle-bib — 
relics that were more than curiosities even 


IN THOSE DAYS 


63 


now, for they told of a sacred love between 
mother and child. In another pocket was 
an old tape needle that had Andrew Jackson's 
name on it. 

''He was the President when that needle 
was made," Grandma explained, "and every- 
thing was named after him." 

"Like the Teddy bears," said Phoebe, point- 
ing to Mr. Roosevelt's .namesake, who still 
held his own as driver of an automobile. 

"Yes," said Grandma; "in some ways peo- 
ple don't change much. Everybody in those 
days either loved or hated Jackson, and his 
name was in everybody's mouth." 

"Jackson balls!" cried Phoebe, suddenly 
remembering one that had filled her mouth 
only a short time ago. 

Grandma looked pleased. She was still 
loyal to the old soldier. "Hard as flint and 
the pure stuff," she said, thinking of the candy 
tokens and the man after whom they were 
named. 


64 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Phoebe was looking into another pocket. 
What was this? She unrolled a paper and 
her face looked blank. Four little front teeth 
lay in her hand. 

''Did you study 'gomology' ?'’ she asked 
doubtfully — "all about the meat and bones 
you're made of?" 

"Mercy, no! we didn't know the word 
'physiology' any better than you do, but there 
was one thing we must do in those days, that 
was more important than any other, and that 
was — we must remember. Whatever else hap- 
pened, times and friends must never be for- 
got." Grandma had been true to her train- 
ing ; her heart was full of memories that she 
longed to talk about. "Any little thing that 
would help us remember must be kept for- 
ever," and then Phoebe waited patiently while 
Grandma told about the pretty things ex- 
changed between friends, such as pressed 
flowers, paper hearts woven together, and 
paper hands clasped in friendship; of em- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


65 


broidered bookmarks and samplers, each bear- 
ing the one device, ''Remember me/' The 
burden laid on every child's heart was "re- 
member, remember," and many a boy was 
whipped at the comer boundary stones that 
he might always remember where they were 
placed. It was a good memory, more than 
any other trait, that was a mark of a great 
mind. 

"'Lest we forget,' how much that meant 
in those days," she said, taking up the little 
teeth. "These were my oldest brother's front 
teeth. They were saved that Mother might 
always remember something that happened 
and be thankful every time she thought of it. 
When Hiram was a little boy, he was holding 
a horse by a halter. Suddenly the horse 
reared and one of its forefeet struck him in 
the mouth. His lip wasn't even cut, but four 
of his front teeth were knocked out. So you 
see why they were precious, don't you?" 

Phoebe knew. Grandma was always thank- 


66 


IN THOSE DAYS 


ful — for the good things, because they were 
good — for the bad, because they were no 
worse. So Phoebe said simply, '' 'Cause there 
were only four." 

''Very true," said Grandma, "the boy was 
spared with only four little teeth missing. 
Now," she said, blithe as a bird, "I am going 
to show you another of my pockets. You'll 
think it's homely, but then — " 

"Oh, get it!" was the cry; "I'll like it, I 
know I shall." 

Grandma went off by herself into the par- 
lor. There, hanging on the back of an uphol- 
stered chair that stood close against the wall, 
was a bag containing her best spoons. No- 
body in the house, she thought, knew this 
hiding place except herself. She took the 
spoons out and laid them on the mantel, and, 
swinging the bag on her arm, walked out. 
Phoebe was waiting for her with big round eyes. 

"Is that it ?" she said slowly, and she might 
just as well have said, "It is homely." 


IN THOSE DAYS 


67 


Old, dingy, faded, ugly in shape and size, 
the bag was indeed homely. It was made of 
coarse calico that had once been buff with 
crossbars of brown, but the colors had worn 
off long ago. It was over a foot deep and 
wider than it was deep. There was one long 
string run in the top edge for a shirr-string, 
and with this the bag was swung on the arm 
and carried. Grandma looked at the old bag 
as it hung at her side, and Phoebe, looking at 
Grandma, saw something in her face that made 
her say softly: ''Tell me about it. Grand- 
ma.'' 

"It is an old friend, Phoebe; Grandma and 
the bag have been together a good many years. 
It was my first workbag, and Becky made it 
for me." 

"Becky?" 

"Yes, Becky. She thought I needed one 
to keep my work in — and she saw, too, that 
I always had work enough in it. She told me 
one day after dinner if I would mind the baby 


IN THOSE DAYS 


all the afternoon, she would make me a work- 
bag. I minded the baby with a will that after- 
noon. If the sides of the old cradle hadn't 
been high, the baby would have rolled on the 
floor, for I rocked so hard, he just bounced 
from side to side. Becky kept her word and 
made the bag, and about four o'clock, I walked 
out of the house, as proud as a peacock, with 
my first workbag hung on my arm. Pretty 
soon I wanted something to put into it, and 
all I could think of was an egg. So I found 
an egg and carried it around in my big bag, 
perfectly satisfied and happy. Then the sad 
thing happened. I forgot. I climbed over a 
fence and as I jumped to the ground, some- 
thing smashed. For a minute my heart stood 
still, but the next, I was up and off and run- 
ning for the creek as fast as I could go. I 
washed out the bag and hung it in the garret 
on an old spinning wheel to dry. The next 
day it was as good as new and Becky none 
the wiser for the accident. I was wiser. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


69 


though ; I carried my work, and not eggs, in 
my workbag after that/' 

She opened the bag. ''Big enough to hold 
a watermelon, isn't it ? When I went to see 
Ruth Emmie, or she came to see me, we packed 
all our patchwork pieces in our bags." 

"What, rags," asked Phoebe, "like those 
you wanted me to sew together?" 

"Yes, rags, as you call them. They were 
our choicest treasures." 

Again Grandma forgot bags and pockets, 
and she was sitting once more with her little 
friend of long ago. Together they looked 
over what to them was a wonderful collec- 
tion of patchwork pieces. Every piece was 
examined and talked about. The light ones 
must be sorted from the dark, and then the 
prettiest one of all must be decided upon. 
No books or pictures ever afforded children 
more pleasure than did the little homespun 
pieces carefully hoarded from day to day. 

"I was never happier," Grandma said, "if 



70 





IN THOSE DAYS 


71 


I chanced to be visiting, than when the lady 
of the house lighted a candle and beckoned 
for me to follow her. Then I knew she was 
going into some dark closet, where she would 
find patchwork pieces for me.'' 

Phoebe looked guilty. Had she not 
crammed all the rags that Grandma had found 
for her, into a little box footstool and pushed 
it under the lounge as far back as she could 
reach ? 

"'Wait till you see what I did with rags," 
said Grandma, not willing to drop the sub- 
ject — ''my Rising Sun and Irish Chain and 
my pretty Hearts and Gizzards — " 

Teeth and now pretty hearts and giz- 
zards ! what next ? Grandma paid no atten- 
tion to interruptions — "and the most won- 
derful of all, my Beggars' Work, pieced out of 
all the odds and ends — you'll prize them 
when you see them. Oh, well, times are dif- 
ferent — maybe it would be foolish to piece 
bedquilts now." 


72 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Phoebe's face brightened. Grandma went 
to the mantel, took down a candlestick, lighted 
the candle, and said, ''Come with me and 
ril show you something worth looking at." 

Phoebe didn't know what was coming, but 
like Phoebe of old, she was willing to follow a 
light into a dark closet and see and hear 
"something more." 

In a few minutes the two were upstairs, 
sitting on the floor of the storeroom, looking 
into an old green chest. 

"Here they all are in the till," Grandma 
said, opening the little box in the end of the 
chest. 

"Oh, that's a stylish one!" cried Phoebe, 
as Grandma took a small bag from its wrap- 
pings. 

Grandma hung it on her wrist. "This is 
what I carried my handkerchief in when I was 
a young lady." It was made of diamond- 
shaped and three-cornered pieces of soft blue 
and white wool delain embroidered with 


IN THOSE DAYS 


73 


French knots. '' I wore it only when I dressed 
up/' said Grandma, showing the white lining 
and carefully touching the faded tassel that 
hung from the bottom. 

Another package was taken from the till. 
It proved to be a thick square needlebook, 
made of bright green silk and red flannel, with 
cardboard covers that were flnely embroid- 
ered with shaded red roses. ''Hiram's wife 
always carried this in her best workbag. 
She was very particular. This was hers, too," 
and Grandma unrolled an oblong piece of 
canvas. It was covered on the outside with 
solid embroidery done in a diamond pattern 
with shaded brown yarn, and on the inside was 
a lining of pink silk, on which were fastened 
leaves of white flannel and pockets of pink silk. 

"Here is one that is worth its weight in 
gold," said Grandma, taking off its wrapping 
of an old silk handkerchief. She held up the 
bag for Phoebe to see. 

" Oh, that is the beautifulest one I ever saw 


74 


IN THOSE DAYS 


in all my life said the little bag collector, 
who looked as if she, too, at last, was per- 
fectly satisfied. It was an oval-shaped hand- 
kerchief bag, such as ladies carried nearly a 
hundred years ago. It was of solid bead- 
work. Flowers and leaves and scrolls were 
done in gilt beads on a background of bluish 
white ones, while around the lower edge were 
loops of the white and gilt beads. How softly 
it glistened as Grandma held it up in the 
candlelight ! 

''You didn't make that, did you?" Phoebe 
asked in wonder. 

"My mother made it and carried it for the 
first time on her wedding day. I have heard 
her tell how she went off into the orchard all 
by herself and worked on this bag. This was 
only for 'high days and holy days,' but some 
kind of a pocket there must be for every day. 
Not this — " Grandma shook her head. 

Phoebe was looking at the bag with longing 
eyes. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


75 


''Not now, Phoebe,'' said Grandma, wrap- 
ping up the bag and laying it away, "but 
some day. 

"How do you like this for a pocketbook?" 
She took out an immense red leather wallet. 
"This held valuable papers and was kept hid- 
den behind a panel in the kitchen wall. There, 
that is the last, I think." 

Phoebe drew a deep breath and said, "Well, 
Grandma, I think your bags are a hundred 
thousand times nicer than mine." 

Grandma looked pleased, and the bags were 
all put back. " I know who will have them all 
some day — some day," she said. 

"That will be like a fairy story, won't it?" 
and two arms were around Grandma's neck. 

"Yes," said Grandma; "the right word at 
the right time, and some day, the fairies will 
send what you want." 

Phoebe thought a minute. "It is always 
'some day,' and I want now, noWy Grandma, 
a pocket and a big workbag, 'zactly like yours. 


76 


IN THOSE DAYS 



to hang on my arm, and an egg, oh, an egg, 
to put in it 

The next morning, a bag and a pocket were 
on a chair by the side of Phoebe's bed, and in 
the bag, an egg, hard-boiled, lest history 
'''zactly" repeat itself. 



THE OLD SANDBANK 

The raindrops were beginning to fall, and 
Phoebe was cross. She didn't want to cut 
or paste or sew or do anything else, except 
what she couldn't do. Grandma didn't like 
to hear a whine in the sweet voice, but she 
knew she had only to wait a few minutes and the 
sunshine would come back into Phoebe's face. 

''You'll never guess why I was glad that it 
was going to rain, when I was a little girl," 
said Grandma, coaxingly. 


77 


78 


IN THOSE DAYS 


There was no reply. 

''And then I was glad when it stopped.'' 

"You were a queer little girl, any way — 
glad over everything," Phoebe said crossly. 

It was Grandma's turn to keep still. She 
went on peeling apples. Soon a little green 
saucer of quartered apples was set on the 
comer of the table, somebody slid into a chair 
that stood near it, a mild voice said, " Thank 
you, " with its usual upward slide, and every 
sign of cloud and mist was gone from Phoebe's 
face. 

"Tell me why you were glad. Grandma," 
she said, looking now as if she were closely 
related to the glad-hearted little girl of long 
ago. 

"We children waited days and days some- 
times, hoping it would rain. We knew just 
about when it would come, too, for we knew 
the 'signs,' and nobody doubted them." 

Phoebe looked at Grandma with a new in- 
terest. " Oh, I know," she said, " you are 


IN THOSE DAYS 


79 


a ^ weather breeder. ' You can tell me whether 
it is going to clear off or not.'' 

Grandma looked at the big raindrops rat- 
tling against the window and nodded wisely 
as if she knew — but to be called a ''weather- 
breeder" ! What an ignoramus the child was 
on some subjects. Very seriously, then, as if 
now was the time and nothing of more im- 
portance, she told Phoebe about the bright 
days that sometimes were full of signs of com- 
ing storm and that such days were called 
''weather breeders," but people who were 
wise enough to know a few weather signs and 
could tell whether it would rain or shine, were 
called "weather prophets." 

"Do you mean to call me a 'weather 
breeder' ?" and Grandma put on the look and 
the growl of the big bear in the "Three Bears" 
story. "I want you to understand that I am 
a 'weather prophet'" — the big bear van- 
ished — "and you are to keep your eyes open 
and learn to be a 'weather prophet.' Then 


80 


IN THOSE DAYS 


you will know why the weather is one of the 
ihost interesting things in the world and will 
love it, whether fair or foul, and love to talk 
about it/' 

Phoebe's crossness had stirred up Grandma, 
and she was holding forth on her favorite 
topic. 

''Mother Goose knew a thing or two" — 
Grandma recited trippingly : — 

"One misty, moisty morning, I chanced to meet 
the weather. 

And he was an old man all clothed in leather. 

He began to compliment and I began to grin, 

'How do you do? and how do you do? and 
how do you do again?"' 

"Meet Mr. Weather with a smile, even if 
he has his raincoat on, and just make up 
your mind that you and he will have a good 
time together." 

"I don't know the 'signs,'" said Phoebe, 
not very hopefully — "only the little flags." 

"Little flags !" said Grandma, scornfully. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


81 


''We didn't need blue and red flags to tell us 
whether it would rain or not. The old rooster 
was our weather bureau. If he crowed on 
the ground, it was going to rain. If he hopped 
on the fence and crowed, it would clear off. 
If the rooster crowed to bed, he would rise 
with a watery head. The Man in the Moon, 
too, instead of the man in Washington, gave 
us our signals. If the new moon stood up 
straight, so that the old Indian couldn't 
hang his powder horn on it, it was a wet moon. 
If it lay on its back, it was a dry moon. 
'Mackerel sky' meant rain close by. If the 
stones in the cellar were sweaty and dripping, 
it would surely rain, but if the bricks in the 
kitchen floor dried off quickly after they had 
been mopped, it would be fair weather, or if 
the swallows flew high, or the smoke went 
straight up, it would be fair. — " On and on 
Grandma went, telling of signs and wonders 
that Phoebe had never dreamed of and that 
might or might not baffle a wise man to 


82 


IN THOSE DAYS 


explain. They bubbled up from the simple | 
heart of a true child of nature — 

''We heard the robin when it sung for rain ; ) 
we knew the cry of the tree toad and the ^ 
mournful note of the cold-weather bird ; and $ 
our hearts just leaped for joy when we heard 
for the first time the peepers in the spring — ^ 
although we knew they must be shut up twice I 
by the cold before spring would come to stay. . 
Ah, we had time in those days to see and hear 
things and make friends with everything 
around us. There isn't time any more." 

''Yes, there is. Grandma. Look, the 
smoke ! it is going to clear off." 

"Good !" said Grandma. "It goes straight • 
up. Now every day you watch the sky and 
the wind and the moon and see what they 
will come to tell you. And when you sing ^ 
your little kindergarten song to us, as you do 
every morning, ^ 

" 'Good morning to you, good morning to you, i 

Good morning, dear sunshine, good morning to 
you,' j 


IN THOSE DAYS 


83 


whether the sun shines or not, I want you to 
sing also, 

'Good morning to you, good morning to you. 

Good morning, dear weather, good morning to 
you/ '' 

.1 

Phoebe was delighted with the addition, and 
promised to look for the rooster signs every 
morning. Grandma felt as relieved and satis- 
fied as if she had done a good stroke of work. 

''Now I will tell you why I was glad,'' she 
said, knowing well that Phoebe had the dropped 
thread safely in her hand. "The rain would 
come and the rain would go, making us children 
twice glad, for after the rain would come fun 
in the sandbank that was back of the house. 
Children do strange things when they are glad. 
The happier they arc, the more queerly they 
act. After the rain was over, we were like 
colts let loose. John or George would put 
his head in at the door and shout 'Come on.' 
That was the signal they would play with me. 


84 


IN THOSE DAYS 


and we were to race for the sandbank. The 
first one there could have first choice for his 
farmland — just like older people/' Grandma 
said to herself. 

^'Our first caper," and she laughed, ^'was 
to stoop down and lick the sand with our 
tongues and crack it with our teeth ; and next 
we would lie flat down and leave the prints 
of our faces in the sand. Then we must ex- 
plore the bank for holes that the bank swal- 
lows had made and run our arms into them 
full length, trying to touch their nests — oh, 
we didn't hurt anything," she said, seeing a 
surprised look on Phoebe's face. ''There 
wasn't a living thing on the farm but John 
knew where to find it and could handle it. 

"After these pranks were over, we settled 
down to business — laid out our farms and 
built sand houses and sand barns — " 

"I know why you liked the rain," cried 
Phoebe; "the sand had to be wet before you 
could play in it. We have a sand table at 





85 






86 


IN THOSE DAYS 


school. I know how to build sand houses, 
too,'' she said, glad, as always, to tell some- 
thing that she knew. Again Grandma and 
Phcebe were on common ground — common 
sand this time — only one had the sand in 
the open with no teacher but a child's free 
will, and the other, on a three by six table with 
somebody to encourage and help at every 
stage of the play. They were the same, 
doubtless — with a difference — but Phoebe 
sighed for the great open bank. 

''How?" asked Grandma, willing to com- 
pare notes. 

"You just lay your hand down in the sand 
and cover it deep, deep, and you pat it and 
pat it hard, and smooth it until it is as smooth 
and round as anything. Then you take your 
hand out very, very carefully, and there is 
your house — and a little door in it." 

"Very good," said Grandma, "only we 
molded the sand over our feet as well as over 
our hands. Our farms looked pretty much 


IN THOSE DAYS 


87 


alike until one day, when Cousin Loreny came 
to see us/' 

'' If you could only have had her all the time, 
Grandma." 

''Yes, as you have your teacher with your 
little sand table. Loreny always saw a new 
and better way of doing things and made us 
find it out. On this day, after we had raced 
for the sandbank, she said : 'Now have a head 
race and each of you think of something new 
to put on your farms and Til decide which 
comes out ahead. ' 

We liked a new game and we liked to please 
Cousin Loreny, so we went to work with a 
will. We built our fences as usual." 

Phoebe wanted to know just how they were 
built. 

Grandma put aside her apples and found 
some little sticks. She crossed two and stuck 
them into the earth in a flowerpot, then two 
more in the same manner about four inches 
from the first pair, and rested another stick 


88 


IN THOSE DAYS 


in their crotches. '' We called such a fence a 
rail fence. Another we made so-fashion/' and 
she took one end of the cross stick from one 
of the crotches and let it rest on the earth. 
''This we called a gun fence, and then there 
were the little stone fences like those you 
built at the seashore.'' 

Grandma was not allowed to leave out one 
item in the laying out of those farms. Perhaps 
she had an idea that in the very near future 
history might again repeat itself. "A farm 
wasn't very valuable in those days without 
woodland on it. So tiny branches of different 
kind of trees must be gotten together and 
stuck into the sand. George had groves of 
locusts and oaks — valuable for building; 
John had pines — " 

"Christmas trees!" was the shout at this 
point. 

"A bit of pine didn't mean a Christmas 
tree to us as it does to you. Shall I tell you 
the kind of fun a pine tree did mean to us ? 
It meant pitch." 


IN THOSE DAYS 


89 


Phoebe looked perfectly blank. 

''We scraped it off from pine logs, with a flat 
stick, into a cup, boiled it down, and made 
shoemakers' wax — " Grandma smiled. 

Where was there fun in that ? 

"And — " she hesitated, "chawed it.'' 

Phoebe's eyes opened wide, 

"Yes, 'chawed' is a very good word for 
such an act. If we said 'chaw' to-day, per- 
haps people wouldn't chew gumJ^ 

Phoebe agreed — she was sure nobody ever 
"chawed." She daintily nibbled her apple 
and thought about the farms. "I know what 
your trees were," she said, ready to go on, — 
"they were apple trees." 

Grandma told how rows of little apple 
twigs were set out for orchards, and in the open 
fields clusters of butternut trees and whole 
woods of hickory and chestnut. 

''Just because you loved to go nutting. 
You ought to have been a squirrel. Grandma." 

Again there was danger of Grandma switch- 


90 IN THOSE DAYS 

ing off from her story, for visions of frost and 
rain and wind and then bright October days 
flashed through her mind, and in the golden 
glow of the woods trudged a plain little brownie 
girl, scratching the leaves here and there, 
like a ground robin, that she might And the 
last stray chestnut to add to her own winter's 
hoard tied up in a stocking. Such a series of 
pictures ! and how the sight of them warmed 
her heart ! 

Had Grandma forgotten the play farms? 
''Was that all?" asked the little prompter. 

"Why, I have only just begun," said 
Grandma. "The great thing on this day was 
the finishing touch that each of us gave to 
his farm, as he tried to make it different, and 
better than it ever was before. All we knew 
was our everyday home life, but don't think 
from that there was nothing new or exciting 
in our 'make-believes.' I added a little porch 
over the door of my sand house — and what 
was grander in those days than a porch with 


IN THOSE DAYS 


91 


a seat on either side ? Loreny picked a few 
flowers for me, from Mother's flower beds — 
such as 'merrygolds' and 'loxspurs' and 
bachelor's buttons and always bergamont and 
rosemary to smell sweet — these I stuck in 
the sand each side of the little path that I 
made from my door to the gate. That was 
all — my farm was done and I was content. " 

Phoebe could see the farm in her mind's 
eye, and she, too, looked content. 

''The boys cared little for my porch and 
posies — such things were nothing compared 
with what they would make. George took 
some string from his pocket, and in a jiffy, 
made a swing between two of his trees and put 
a swing board in it. Then he made something 
that tickled me 'most to pieces. He dug a 
hole in the sand and sunk in it a part of a 
gourd. Near this he stuck a crotched stick 
and rested in the crotch a longer stick. It was 
to be a well — a 'really and truly' well with 
a long sweep." 


92 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Phoebe knew — she had seen ^'the old oaken 
bucket'' picture, but her picture of the little 
gourd well was not quite complete. 

''What was the bucket made of?" she 
cried, and Grandma knew it would not be 
many hours before there would be in the 
backyard a farm and a swing and a well. 



"A little bit of a gourd," Grandma replied, 
"something like the one I gave you the other 
day." Phoebe went straight to the kitchen 
and got her little green and yellow gourd 
from the shelf where it was drying. Then for 
a few minutes, — how could she help it ? — 
Grandma talked about gourds — how they 


IN THOSE DAYS 


93 


were planted, little and big, every year, and 
how, when they were ripe, one whole day was 
taken to fix the dippers and spice cans and 
boxes and cups that were made out of gourds. 
She showed how the handles were wound with 
cloth when the gourds were green, so that 
the handles wouldn't grow large; how holes 
were cut in the tops or in the sides of the 
gourds, according to what they were used 
for, and the edges bound with cloth to keep 
them from splitting. Many a family, she 
said, had no other dipper than a big gourd 
shell, and sometimes they had no other pail. 

''Why, there was an old song — wasn't 
it funny?" and Phoebe thought it was, as 
Grandma sung a few lines from it : — 

'‘ They had but one cow 
And they milked her in a gourd. 

And set it in a corner 
And kivered it with a board. " 

Gourds might have been a sign of poverty 
once upon a time, but now a new value had 


IN THOSE DAYS 


94 

been put upon them, and Phoebe held hers 
tightly in her hand. 

The last and best was yet to come, but 
Grandma was seldom in a hurry. She worked 
and talked, and talked and then worked. She 
put her apples stewing, looked at Phoebe's 
''purple pie" that was in the oven. Then 
she was ready to answer the eager query, 
"John — what did he do?" 

She made no haste, however, to finish the 
race of bright ideas that she was telling 
about — perhaps the "weather prophet" was 
racing with the raindrops and willing that they 
should beat her. The little animals on the 
make-believe farms were described. The 
little striped acorns were used for sheep, the 
big, fat brown acorns, for cows, and the long, 
shiny, sweet acorns, for horses. Sometimes 
all kinds of animals were made out of teeny 
potatoes with four little sticks stuck into 
them for legs. Of course the animals were 
put into the pasture lots, "and of course," 


IN THOSE DAYS 


95 


said Grandma, emphatically, ''we never forgot 
two things — shade trees and a brook, in a 
pasture lot” 

Phoebe nodded — she filled the low tub in 
the yard twice a day for birds and animals. 
"And dollies — you had no little bits of dol- 
lies?'' she asked. 

"Yes, we had little sticks that we called 
our men and women. They were little twigs 
that were broken from trees like the maple, 
whose buds or branches grow opposite. The 
little branches or leaf stems on opposite sides 
looked like arms, so it was easy enough to 
imagine that such sticks were men and women. 



But the most beautiful ladies Loreny showed 
me how to make out of poppies and holly- 
hocks. By turning the big petals of these 


96 


IN THOSE DAYS 


flowers back from their pistils and tying the 
petals down, the flowers can be made to look 
like little ladies with heads and waists and 
skirts of shiny, bright-colored silk. 

''George and I were putting the make-be- 
lieve animals in our lots, when we heard John 
say, 'I guess I will put my animals in the 
barns.' We looked at his farm and saw noth- 
ing new, except that he had made his bams 
larger than usual. He left us and was gone 
a little while. When he came back, he was 
holding on to his pockets and some pieces of 
string were hanging out of them. He made us 
go off and lie face down in the sand until he 
was ready for us to look. 

"In a minute Loreny came out to see the 
end of our labors, and who should appear, 
too, just as John shouted ' Ready ! ' but Becky, 
carrying in her arms the big knife box full of 
knives and forks for us to scour in the sand. 
Cousin Loreny thought the farms wonderful. 
She picked a posy from my flower beds and 


IN THOSE DAYS 


97 


dipped some water from George's well and 
drank from an acorn-cup, while Becky snorted 
with wrath over such a waste of time and 
— string, which she saw lying in the sand and 
stooped to pick up. 

Hst ! ' said John to her in a way that 
made us all jump. 

''He opened the door of one of his bams. 
Now it was his turn to show that he was not 
to be outdone by the others. He drew out 
a leaf on which were lying five little white 
land snails, 'the father and mother and three 
little ones,' he said, that he had found not far 
apart in the woods under the leaves. These 
were his sheep. He picked up a string and 
pulled out what he called his cow — a tiny 
box turtle. He opened the door of another 
bam and out crawled a baby mouse, dragging 
behind it a little walnut shuck, that we were 
told was a sled." 

"Oh, like Cinderella, wasn't it?" Phoebe 
cried joyfully. 


98 


IN THOSE DAYS 


'^^That is my work horse/ John said, ^and 
this is my racer/ He picked up another 
string, opened a third door, and a beautiful 
little garter snake wriggled out on the sand. 
In a second, Becky was missing. She and 
her knives and forks went back to the kitchen 
more quickly than they came out. Nobody 
else thought of being afraid. We were used 
to John's animals. He could tame and handle, 
without being hurt, any kind of an animal. I 
nearly broke his heart once by killing a bee 
that was on top of his little tow head. I 
struck it a fearful blow with a stick, and he 
cried, not from the blow, but for the bee. 
'It's deaded, it's deaded !' he said. 

"Loreny loved best of all his kindness for 
animals, and she decided, as we knew she 
would do, that John had won the race." 

Phoebe sat thinking and wishing. " Is that 
all?" she asked. Her mind was made up on 
a lot of things she would like to do, if she only 
had a chance. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


99 


'Tretty nearly/' said Grandma. 'Teter 
came, and Loreny sent him to fetch the knives 
and forks. I wondered why he staid and 
helped sconr them. So on this day, five jolly 
people, instead of one lonely little girl, sat 
in the sandbank and scoured knives and forks 
in the wet sand. The job was soon done. 
Then with a shout of 'Keel i' over!' John 
and George and I went head over heels down 
the steep bank, and that kind of work and 
play was done until the next rainstorm." 

Rain or shine, what good times Grandma had I 

Grandma looked out of the window. '' Keel 
i' over I " she cried. The rain is over ! And 
I know something that you don't know. A 
man brought a wagon load of sand here this 
morning before you were up, and emptied it 
in my backyard. What do you suppose he 
brought it here for — for me to scour my 
knives in?" 

"Keel i' over, keel i' over I" sung a happy 
little girl. 



VI 

GRANDMA^S SCHOOL DAYS 

Ph(EBE was reading her lesson. She read 
a little in her book every day. Grandma was 
listening as she went about her morning work, 
and ''somebody else,'' helping, was listening 
also. Grandma was puzzled over something, 
but she kept still for a long time. 

At last she said slowly, "Phoebe, do you 
know your letters ?" 

And Phoebe replied brightly, "I don't be- 
lieve I know them all." 

This was too much for Grandma. Almost 
six years old, and not know her letters ! " And 
you read, too," she cried ; "I heard you read- 
ing about 'squirrel' and 'daisies' and 'butter- 


100 


IN THOSE DAYS 


101 


cups' — how can you read such words and 
not know your letters?" and Grandma's 
'"specs" shone big and glaring, as she looked 
up from the tumblers she was polishing. 

The little figure curled up on the couch only 
laughed. '' Why, I read. Grandma, just as 
you do. I look at my book and make my 
mouth go. I can 'member ' squirrel ' all 
right, 'cause it looks like a squirrel, and 
' buttercups ' and ' robin ' — they look like 
something, but I can't 'member ' have ' and 
' some,' Phoebe said sadly, " they don't look 
like anything." 

Grandma looked more puzzled than ever 
after this explanation. "Can you spell?" 
she asked curiously. 

"Not much. I can spell c-a-t, cat; r-a-t, 
rat; b-a-b-y, baby," said Phoebe, clicking off 
the words as fast as a typewriter. 

"But you can't spell a new word?" said 
Grandma, trying to get to the bottom of the 
matter. 


102 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''Not yet. Fm studying 'b’ now. The 
teacher told us it sounded just like a baby 
trying to talk — 'buh, buh, buh' she went. 
She said it was in 'buh-book' and 'buh-box' 
and 'buh-bee' and told me to listen sharp. 
I did listen and then she said we would play 
a game and find words with 'bMn them. I 
told her right off that if it was in a bee, it was 
in a hornet. She laughed and said, 'Phoebe, 
Phoebe, you think of things and not words, ' '' 

Then Grandma laughed. "I might as well 
give up,'' she said; "such teaching is beyond 
me and my time." 

"Mamma gets 'scouraged, too," said 
Phoebe, "but Papa says, 'I'm proud of you' 
— that's when I spell. Do you want me 
to spell 'dog'? G-o-t, dog," said Phoebe, 
slowly. 

"Phoebe, if you keep on, you'll be as great 
a speller as Simple Sal was, who went to school 
when I did. One day the teacher wanted 
her to spell ' wit. ' ' Spell what you need most. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


103 


Sal, ’ he said. The child looked down at her- 
self and spelled ^ t-o-e, clothes.’ ” 

Phoebe didn’t see much point to the story. 
She wasn’t going to be like any Simple Sal, 
though, and she bent over her book in a very 
serious manner. For a little time all was 
quiet. Finally a sigh was heard and a tired 
voice said : ''Grandma, I think you have upset 
me.” 

"No, I haven’t,” said Grandma, decidedly, 
"the trouble is, everything is upset. I learned 
my letters, then little words, and then big 
words. You learn big words and then your 
letters — if you learn them at all. What if 
you had to learn them as I learned mine !” 

Grandma sat down to look for a ''receipt” in 
her old "receipt book.” Phoebe kept very 
still. Grandma found what she was looking 
for; and the little fisherman was ready to 
throw out her bait. She knew how to make 
Grandma talk. 

"Did you learn your letters in the kinder- 


104 


IN THOSE DAYS 


garten or in the public school?'^ asked a 
coaxing voice. 

Grandma handed the ''Hard Sugar Cooky 
receipt'' to somebody who was waiting, laid 
aside the big, glaring spectacles, and put on 
the pretty gold ones. Then folding her hands 
on the old book, and with a look of happiness 
on her face, she said; "I will tell you. My 
first school was on the old hearth in the 
kitchen. I learned my letters from the bricks. 
I wasn't much more than a baby, when a 
little girl who went to school used to stop at 
our house every morning in the winter to 
warm herself. She would take a black coal 
from the hearth and make letters on the bricks. 
These she would teach to me and tell me I 
must know them when she came again. It 
wasn't long before I learned to have the bricks 
brushed and ready for my lesson." 

"That must have been fun," said Phoebe. 

"Fun or not, I learned my letters in this 
way. When I went to school, I went to what 


IN THOSE DAYS 


105 


was called a 'Deestrict School/ I couldn't 
have been more than three years old when I 
began to go to school, and the schoolhouse 
was a mile away from our farm." 

This fact, too, seemed to have its bright 
side. '^Then did you 'grajerate' when you 
were a little girl — Mm? Did you?" 
Phoebe asked hopefully. 

''In those days," said Grandma, "chil- 
dren knew a great deal when they were six 
years old. Yes, they graduated young and 
didn't keep on going to school till they were 
old men and women. I have read of boys who 
were ready for college at the age of six, and 
of one who entered a law school at eight." 

Phoebe shook her head. "Didn't their 
Mammas go with them ?" 

"No, indeed ! as I have told you before, chil- 
dren learned early to fight their own battles. 
I went to school with five or six brothers, but I 
always had my own little dinner basket. How lit- 
tle you know what school meant in those days." 


106 


IN THOSE DAYS 


Phoebe waited and wondered why Grandma 
looked so sober. 

'' I sat all day long, in front of the teacher's 
desk, on a long bench that was the split side 
of a log, with nothing to do but wait and 
wait, and, I guess, ache and ache, for my turn 
to come to say my lesson." 

Phoebe's eyes were wide open with aston- 
ishment. No little chairs, no circle, no long 
tables to work at ! She couldn't think of a 
school without them. 

''No, there were no blocks or balls or 
beads for busy work. There was nothing for 
us little ones to do, or even to look at. There 
was plenty to listen to, and we listened until 
we fell asleep. Two things always hung on 
the wall. Pictures ? Oh, no ! a shiny black- 
board and over it, a bunch of whips." 

" I know, " said Phoebe, " our teacher had 
a bunch of whips one day. They had Pussy 
Willows on them, and she gave us each a whip 
to look at. Then we had to draw it and tell 


IN THOSE DAYS 


107 


a story about it, and when we got all through, 
we sung 'Pussy Willow/ '' 

Grandma smiled. Whips in her day were 
not used as a subject of story and song, but 
she only said : "There were no pussy willows 
on these gads. As for pictures — yes, there 
were pictures on the wall, just as there are 
in the sky at night, if you look long enough. 
The wall was old and rough and had been 
mended in places. I had nothing to do ex- 
cept study these queer-shaped patches. I 
looked and looked at them until I saw the 
faces of old men, little chubby boys and girls, 
and strange animals. They grew to be like 
the faces of friends, and I can see them to this 
day.’' 

Phoebe looked at the ceiling. Here was a 
new field for study. 

"In the summer,” Grandma went on, "we 
had a woman teacher — a 'Yankee school- 
marm,’ if we could get one. She taught us 
how to plait straw bonnets and sew. We had 



108 


IN THOSE DAYS 


109 


to make samplers like the one that I have 
framed which shows all the different stitches 
and letters. We learned how to darn and over- 
hand and do all kinds of sewing. I remember 
making sheets and pillow-cases in school. 
In the summer school, we sewed more than we 
studied. The summer teacher always had 
her thimble on, made of iron, sometimes, and 
she could do some hard tapping with it. If 
we didn't do just right, we were tapped on the 
head with her thimble. When she called 
school, she tapped with it on the window pane 
or on the side of the schoolhouse." 

''Weren't you glad when you didn't have 
a woman teacher and didn't have to sew or 
get tapped on the head," was the anxious 
query. But when Grandma told how the 
man teacher always carried a heavy ruler or 
rod which he used for rapping on the doorpost 
or on the boys and girls to keep them in order, 
Phoebe thought there wasn't much choice be- 
tween the teachers of those days. 


no 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''There were no bells for calling us together, 
but at the first sound of the ruler or of the 
thimble or of a heavy chain that was some- 
times jingled, we ran for the schoolhouse. 
We simply had to obey in those days, and we 
had to be polite. We stopped at the door 
and 'made our manners' as we went in. The 
boys bowed or bobbed their heads and the 
girls dropped a courtesy — this way." For 
a few minutes there was great fun trying to 
make the old-fashioned bow. 

"You don't bend your back at all — you 
just put one foot back a little and bend your 
knees. I can do that," said Phoebe, jumping 
back on the lounge. 

"When we left at night, we turned at the 
door, 'made our manners,' and said 'Good 
afternoon.' If we saw the minister coming, 
when we were out at play, we had to line up 
quickly and 'make our manners' to him. 
Sometimes we would hear him say as he passed, 
'Nice boys, nice girls.' I am afraid old people 


IN THOSE DAYS 


111 


to-day don't always feel like saying that when 
they pass a crowd of youngsters." 

Phoebe shook her head. ''A crowd of boys 
is awfully naughty !" 

''Would you like to know just how the old 
schoolhouse looked inside?" Grandma was 
seeing things far away. 

Two voices answered, one from the kitchen 
and one from the couch, " Indeed we 
would." Grandma had been busy all the 
morning. Nobody in the house wanted her 
to work hard, and "somebody else" besides 
Phoebe was always ready to say the word that 
would lead Grandma on and on in these happy 
talks. 

"There was an entry," she said, beginning 
at the beginning, "but we didn't leave our 
bonnets and things there. We hung them on 
pegs all around the schoolroom. A big fire- 
place was near the door, and the teacher's 
desk was near the fireplace, so he was always 
warm — but the children in the comers often 


112 


IN THOSE DAYS 


cried with the cold/' Grandma explained 
how the parents furnished the wood for the 
fire, the amount that each family gave de- 
pending upon the number of children it sent 
to school, and how if any families failed to 
furnish wood, their children were put in the 
coldest part of the room. The big boys, of 
course, cared for the fire and took turns Veek 
about,' building it mornings. Grandma 
stopped and taught Phoebe the old rhyme 
that every child knew and followed in those 
days. Here was her ''receipt for fire build- 
ing":— 

"First a fore-stick, then a back-stick. 

And then a stick behind, 

A middle-stick, a top-stick. 

And then a stick of pine/' 

"The schoolroom — " somebody merrily 
prompted. 

Grandma went on, " The children sat around 
the outside of the room, with their backs 
toward the center. They had no desks, but 


IN THOSE DAYS 113 

a long counter ran around the room next to 
the wall, and the children sat at this and 
studied. They had no chairs or stools to 
sit on. A long bench made out of rough slabs 
was considered good enough for a school- 
house, and this bench the pupils must hop 
over every time they came out on the 
floor.'’ 

Phoebe brightened up. This was a nice 
arrangement — and the story was interrupted 
long enough to And out whether Grandma 
hopped with one foot or two feet. 

That point in gymnastics settled. Grandma 
gave ‘Hhe day's order" in the old school. 
''The first thing we did in the morning was 
to sit very still and listen to the first class as 
it read from the New Testament. The 
teacher read a verse, and then each pupil, in 
turn, read one." 

"Did you sing?" 

"Not then." 

"I don't suppose you said 'Our Father, we 


114 


IN THOSE DAYS 


thank you/ '' — Phoebe was no longer certain 
of anything. 

''No, no; sometimes, though, we had a 
teacher who prayed. The reading classes 
came next, and I loved to listen as they read 
from the old English Reader. My favorite 
pieces were 'Lady Jane Gray’ and 'Pythias 
and Damon.’ The book had lots of advice 
in it that we couldn’t possibly understand.” 
Grandma shook her head at somebody who 
stood in the door — "Think of children read- 
ing about 'Exalted Society and the Renewal 
of Virtuous Connexions, Two Sources of Fu- 
ture Felicity’ !” 

"Huh!” said Phoebe, "it sounds like the 
minister. But the little bits of children — 
they read about 'cat,’ didn’t they?” 

"We didn’t read about 'cat’ until a long 
time after I began to go to school, and then it 
was a fable about 'The Cat and the Rat.’ 
I learned to read in Webster’s Spelling Book. 
No, there were no pictures, such as you have. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


115 


no poems about Hiawatha, nor stories about 
Santa Claus, nor even about 'cat/ The first 
reading lesson was little syllables of two let- 
ters, like this : — 

' B-a, ba ; b-e, be ; b-i, bi ; b-o, bo ; b-u, bu ; 
b-y, by — 

Ba, be, bi, bo, bu, by. 

C-a, ca; c-e, ce; c-i, ci; c-o, co; c-u, cu; 
c-y, cy — 

Ca, ce, ci, co, cu, cy.'^' 

"I like it,'' said Phoebe. "Hear me count 
out," and she repeated, "Ena, mena, mina, 
mo!" 

"Just about as sensible, perhaps, but that 
was our wslj of learning the sound of 'buh, 
buh, buh' in words. Now I will tell you some 
fine stories from the old 'blue-back,' as the 
blue-covered book was called," and Grandma 
told the stories about 'The Country Maid and 
her Milk Pail,' 'Old Dog Tray,' and another 
never-to-be-forgotten one, ' The Boy that 
stole the Apples' — stories that generations 


116 


IN THOSE DAYS 


of children read and profited by, and that no 
one doubted would be read for all time. Some 
things might change — Grandma repeated 
the old rhyme : — 

'' Everything is changed in name if not in look, 
Excepting time, the Testament, and Webster's 
Spelling Book ! " 

‘'True no longer," she said ; “the old 'blue- 
back' has had its day. Little children learned 
their letters from it, if they hadn't learned 
them before they came to school. The teacher 
called them to him one at a time and pointed 
to each letter, asking, 'What's this?' They 
learned A, B, C, easily enough, straight I, round 
0, crooked S, and Q, with a tail to it, just as 
you do to-day, and then the other letters thej 
couldn't remember so well, and many a 
time the teacher's rod has whistled around 
the ears, 'as it beat in the A, B, C.'" 

Phoebe looked troubled. ''Are you quite 
sure that teachers never, never do so now?" 
she asked. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


117 


“ Quite sure,” said Grandma ; “nobody cares 
to-day about beating in the letters, so you 
needn’t worry.” 

“It was queer, though,” said Grandma to 
herself, “how people loved music and poetry 
in those days. Why, arithmetic, geography, 
and grammar were made into rhyme and set 
to music. We sang everything, and now, 
when I want to remember something that I 
learned at school, I have only to think how 
the song went.” 

“Sing ‘Kill-a-many-P,’ Grandma, and I’ll 
try to ’member.” 

Grandma sang the alphabet, one line of 
which ended with K, L, M, N, 0, P : — 




ab c d e f g hij klmnop 


sang the multiplication table to a 
tune that you never heard/' and Grandma sang 
in a sweet, true voice another of those quaint, 
unending tunes : — 


118 


IN THOSE DAYS 


3 













Two times 

one are 

L- 1 

two ; Two time 

stwo are 

J 1 

four ; 


r “ 




1 n 

V 





II 


X 

U U— 



J — H 


K V — ^ 






Two times three are six ; Two times four are eight. 


Just before recess in the afternoon, we all 
sang at the tops of our voices the names of the 
states and their capitals. Each state and its 
capital was sung twice over to a sing-song 
tune,'^ and Grandma sang again : — 








=1 — ^ ri 

V 




L_? — 



Maine, Au - gus - ta; Maine, Au - gus - ta. 


''I didn't know what was meant by 'capi- 
tals' any more than you did once. I didn't 
even know what the words were, but I sang 
with the rest, 'May gnaw Gustie,' never 
questioning why Gustie was gnawed. It was 
long after I first sung the words, that I learned 
that Maine was a state and Augusta, its capi- 
tal city. 

"Geography was a great study in those 


IN THOSE DAYS 


119 


days, and Peter Parley^s Geography was a 
wonderful book. I can say some verses from 
it now, that we had to learn by heart : — 

'''Animals and plants there be 
Of various name and form ; 

In the bosom of the sea. 

All 'sorts of fishes swarm. 

" ' And now geography doth tell 
Of these full many a story. 

And if you learn your lesson well, 

Twill set them all before you.^ 

"Peter Parley knew what he was writing 
about,'' Grandma declared. "He had crossed 
the ocean thirteen times, which he said was 'a 
very great wonder.' Some people cross it 
now every year, and it is no wonder at all. 
Then some people never cross it, and yet write 
books about every country on earth, and that 
seems to me the greatest wonder of all." 

''Things do seem upside down," somebody 
said quietly. 

Grandma went on with fresh courage. 


120 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''People talk to-day about the value there is 
in children's making things — we didn't talk 
much about it, but we must have had the 
benefit of the training, for we made almost 
everything we used in school. Our writing 
books were made out of large sheets of white 
paper, which we ruled ourselves, sewed to- 
gether, and covered with pasteboard or coarse 
brown paper. Our pens were quill pens, that 
is, the ends of goose quills sharpened with 
a knife and the points used for pens. It 
was quite a knack to make a good pen. Just 
as soon as the point became worn a little, it 
was 'Teacher, please mend my pen.' Let 
a boy hand his pen to the teacher point first, 
and he got a stroke on his knuckles that made 
him remember. We used red ink, blue ink, 
and black ink — all our own make." 

Another deep sigh was heard. Red ink, 
blue ink, and black ink ! How much little 
girls had in those days! "How could you 
make it?" was the eager inquiry. 


IN THOSE DAYS 121 

'‘Easily enough/' said Grandma, but after 
she had told how red ink was made out of 
pokeberries, blue ink out of indigo, and black 
ink by boiling together soft maple bark and 
copperas, "with a little speck of sugar added 
to^ make it shiny and black, " Phoebe knew 
but little more of the mysterious process than 
she did before. "It wasn't all fun using red 
and blue and black inks," Grandma added; 
"one stray blot of ink meant a whipping." 
Then the blotter was described — not a piece 
of blotting paper, but something that looked 
like a wooden pepperbox, with the top hol- 
lowed in and full of holes. This was filled 
with fine black sand, and when the ink of the 
writing was wet, the sand was sifted out on it 
and left to dry. When it was dry, the sand 
was shaken off carefully into the box again. 

" Now the best class of all," said Grandma, 
looking at the clock, "and then school will be 
out. The last thing was the spelling class. 
We had to stand up on the floor and 'toe the 







IN THOSE DAYS 


123 


mark' ; that is, we had to stand in a line, with 
our toes just touching a crack in the floor — 
not a fraction of an inch over the crack — 
our arms stiff. The teacher gave out the 
words and we spelled in loud, distinct voices, 
pronouncing every syllable," and Grandma 
spelled ''Con-stan-ti-no-ple." '"If one of us 
missed a word or failed to pronounce a syl- 
lable, moved his arms, or stepped over the 
mark, the one who corrected the mistake went 
above the pupil who made it. Every after- 
noon, the one at the head of the class went 
down to the foot, and was allowed to wear 
home for the night a shilling piece that had a 
hole through it and was hung on a string. At 
the close of the term, the pupil who had worn 
it the most times received the coin as a prize. 
Sometimes only a penny primer was given for 
a prize, but we worked just as hard for it, for 
it was a great honor to be the best speller." 

Grandma went to the little cupboard that 
stood on the bureau, and took from a box a 


124 


IN THOSE DAYS 


tiny primer, about three inches long and two 
inches wide. Phoebe read the big letters at 
the top of each page and Grandma, the 
poetry : — 

' Great A, little a, bouncing B, 

The cat's in the cupboard and she can't see. 

' Come, pretty cat, 

Come here to me ! 

I want to pat 
You on my knee. 

' Go, naughty dog. 

By barking thus. 

You'll drive away 
My pretty puss.' " 

Poetry was not always equal to the subject. 
Under Grandma read, in prose, ''Here is 
an old lady with a fan, a very comfortable 
thing in warm weather, if the flies bite." 

"I wish I could go to such a school," said 
Phoebe, holding the little book in her hand. 

Grandma had scored another victory, but 


IN THOSE DAYS 


125 


this time she threw it away. ''I am glad 
those days are over/' she said earnestly. 
'' True, we learned to read, write, and cipher 
and were famous spellers, but I wouldn't have 
you go to some of the teachers that I went to 
for anything in the world." 

^'Were they bad teachers?" whispered 
Phoebe, who had two classes for things and 
people, the good and the bad. 

''They did the best they knew how, prob- 
ably, but oh, they were so cruel, cruel." 

Did Grandma mean the tapping and the 
rapping that she had told about ? 

She meant a great deal more than she had 
told or would tell. No child should ever hear 
from her the tortures that were sometimes in- 
flicted on children in the old school days. " I will 
tell you about some of the very tiresome things 
a child had to do if he did not know his lesson 
or could not even pronounce a word that per- 
haps he was too young to pronounce. He 
must stand under the teacher's desk, which 


126 


IN THOSE DAYS 


was high, with his back bent, or sit on a one- 
legged stool and balance himself, or sit on a 
cleat that was nailed to the legs of the teacher's 
desk. He was made, too, to sit on the dunce 
block and wear a dunce cap, and if the teacher 
thought he deserved it, a split stick was fast- 
ened to his nose. Sometimes he had to stoop 
over and touch a crack in the floor, until he was 
so tired he longed to rest by standing on his 
head." Grandma paused; she had told not 
the worst, but enough to prove her point. 

Phoebe sidled up to Grandma: ''Were you 
ever naughty ? " she asked. 

"Not very," and Grandma put her arm 
around the little comforter. "The first day 
that I went to school, I pushed and pushed 
a little girl, until she fell off the bench on to 
the floor. I was tired, I suppose, and would 
give no reason for what I had done, except 
"cause I wanted to.'" 

"Did the teacher make you sit on your 
head?" 


IN THOSE DAYS 


127 


^^No, but little as I was, I had to sit on the 
floor in disgrace/^ 

''Were you ever whipped?'' asked Phoebe, 
with a little break in her voice. 

Grandma hesitated. "Yes," she said 
slowly, "and by the kindest teacher I ever 
had, but a teacher must always keep his word. 
A slippery elm tree had been cut down near 
the school, and of course, we children chewed 
the bark. The teacher made a rule that any 
one caught chewing slippery elm in school 
should be whipped. I forgot one day, and 
just before school was out, put a little piece 
of the bark into my mouth. The teacher saw 
me do it — nobody was ever blind in those 
days — a teacher must see everything and 
punish everything. He came to the bench 
where I was sitting. 

"'Phoebe,' he said, 'what are you chew- 
ing?' 

"'I forgot, teacher,' was all I said. 

"My head went down on my arm and I put 


128 


IN THOSE DAYS 


out my hand to be whipped. The darkness 
of that moment I never shall forget. He 
struck my hand only a few blows with a strap, 
but the fact that I had been publicly whipped 
left a hurt that was a long time healing. That 
was my first and last whipping. Never mind,'' 
said Grandma, cheerfully, those days are 
over now, and I suppose the whippings did 
make us "member' — and that is what we 
must learn to do — by some means or other, 
we must learn to remember , " 

remember things, 'cause I like them," 
said Phoebe, opening her book again and 
looking at the buttercups and squirrel. ''I'll 
study my lesson. If I remember 'have' and 
'some,' won't Miss Mary smile? and she'll 
put a star after my name on the blackboard, 
and Papa will say," and Phoebe flourished 
her hand, ^''Well done, my fellow-compa- 
triot. ' " 

"Ah, yes," said Grandma, "times are 
different." 


IN THOSE DAYS 


129 


'^And not entirely wrongside up/' said 
somebody appearing in the door — ''Time for 
recess now," and a plate of hard sugar cookies 
was passed, that were just as good. Grandma 
declared, as any she ever ate in her life. 



1 



VII 

THE CREEK 


It was almost sleepy time now, and, at 
Grandma's only, sleepy time meant story 
time. Phoebe was snug in bed and Grandma, 
at her usual post, the low, straight-backed 
chair by the bedside. One more story must 
be told and then the two comrades would 
part company for the night. 

The sweet spring smell and the sound of the 
flowing river came in at the open window. 
Nobody spoke of them, but they brought a 
glad message that was felt, and presently 
Grandma said : '' I must tell you to-night about 
the little creek that rippled and flowed year 
in and year out, and is flowing to-day, just 
the same, I haven't a doubt." 


130 


IN THOSE DAYS 


131 


''That's like poetry, Grandma ; surely it is." 

"Is it? Well, it's springtime, and every- 
thing and everybody make poetry of some sort. 
I have been thinking all day about the old 
meadow beyond the orchard. The 'cowslop 
greens' are ready to be picked — I know right 
where we went to find them — and the little 
'blue roosters' are in the grass, too. The 
strawberries are in blossom — never, never was 
anything so good as those wild strawberries." 
Grandma shook her head — "No such things 
nowadays." 

"The creek — you said the creek is there 
now." 

"Yes, the creek was and is always there, 
summer and winter, twisting and turning 
through the meadow. It would go 'tinkle, 
tinkle, tinkle,' in some places, and 'gurgle, 
gurgle, gurgle,' in others, always running along 
as if in a great hurry. Its waters were as 
clear as crystal and looked like a streak of light 
in the sunshine — all except the Deep Hole. 


132 


IN THOSE DAYS 


That was smooth and dark. Jewel Weed — 
or Touch-me-not, we called it — grew on its 
bank, and we were never tired of snapping 
its seed pods or of plunging its leaves into the 
dark water and seeing them turn to silver.'' 

Grandma was thinking rapidly. The creek, 
more than any other part of the farm, had 
been the playground of the children, during all 
seasons. ''There wasn't a thing in it or on it 
or near it," she said, "but meant fun for some 
of us at some time of the year. 

"In the spring, before there was a sign of 
green along the bank, freshets came, and the 
little singing brook became a foaming tor- 
rent and I was afraid of it. But the boys 
loved it and 'went to sea' on it. They sailed 
down the stream on heavy planks, guiding 
them with long poles, until they came to an 
old tree that lay across the creek. Here they 
anchored, and their rafts were pulled back up 
stream. Down and then up, down and then 
up," droned Grandma — "'he who would 


IN THOSE DAYS 


133 


float down, must walk up^ became a saying 
with us/' 

''Don't you sing-song me to sleep, Grandma, 
not for ever so long." The little Delft clock 
said quarter of eight. 

"All right," said Grandma, "we'll have an 
exciting time for a minute. With the same 
long hickory poles, when the water was still 
high, we played the game of 'Stump.' We 
had to be daring and quick in this game and 
follow the leader wherever he went. He went 
usually where the water was deepest and the 
creek widest. He planted his pole in the 
water or on the opposite bank, and then with 
a flying leap, landed across the creek. We 
followed — back and forth, back and forth, 
we flew through the air, determined to do and 
die, if necessary, rather than be 'stumped' 
and — disgraced. Out on the dead tree we 
scrambled, and swung over the water, from a 
long branch, leaping now to this side of the 
creek and now to that. Then light as a bird. 


134 


IN THOSE DAYS 


the leader ran across a rail that had been 
thrown across the water. Such a simple thing 
to do ! but it was the simple thing that usually 
beat us in this game, for then we didn't half 
try. All the rest tripped safely over. I was 
halfway across, when the rail turned. 
Splash ! I went, and there I stood knee-deep 
in the water." 

''Were you ' 'sgraced' ?" 

"Oh, no, not if I followed the leader. A 
mishap rather made a hero of one. Nothing 
but 'dassent' disgraced us. That word 
burned like a hot coal." Grandma nodded 
her head. Yes, the foolish "dares" of child- 
hood had helped make brave boys and girls — 
she was willing to admit it — but now, times 
were different. However, she was not to be 
turned aside to-night; she was following the 
golden thread through the meadow. A glance 
at the clock and the calm face on the pillow, 
and she went on. 

"The freshets told us that spring was com- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


135 


ing, but how slowly it seemed to come. Would 
the clouds ever look warm, the birds sing, and 
the earth grow green. There always came a 
day, when for the first time, a bit of green was 
seen in a low brown place in the meadow. 
Then the cry was heard, 'Skunk cabbage is 
up!' and our hearts were glad. The clouds 
that we never forgot to watch no longer 
looked hard and cold, the ferns uncoiled their 
stems, some May pinks were found under 
dead leaves, a bluebird was seen, and we knew 
that spring was here. 

"Now came another play spell at the creek. 
As regularly as the year rolled around, we had 
a day for digging out great chunks of clay from 
the bed of the creek. If the water was too 
cold to wade into, we walked out on rails over 
it and scooped out the clay with our hands. 
Didn't we get dirty, though?" 

The longing in Phoebe's eyes ! Think of 
scooping out great chunks of clay with one's 
hands ! Compared with them, what were 


136 IN THOSE DAYS 

the little pieces that she had played with in 
the kindergarten? 

''What did you make, Grandma 

"Marbles, principally, and blocks/' 

"Oh — spheres and cubes," corrected 
Phoebe. 

"Yes, spheres and cubes, only we didn't 
know them by those names — and funny little 
animals, too, we cut out of the clay. They 
were all left in the sun to dry, and they all 
crumbled as soon as they were dry, but that 
made no difference to us. We had our fun in 
getting the clay and making the things — and 
the game was ended for that year. Every 
good time had its day, and then something 
else followed just as good as the last," said 
Grandma, a far-off look in her eyes and her 
face lighted with a happy smile. 

"Please tell me about all, all the games. 
Grandma," said a pleading voice, "and then 
I'll shut my peepers." 

Then Grandma told about the early sum- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


137 


mer days and how the boys always had a 
''speir^ of trying to build a dam across the 
creek — tried and tried and had their fun in 
trying, for they never succeeded. ''They 
worked like beavers for a few days, bringing 
sod and stones and old timbers for building 
the dam, but they didnT know as much as 
beavers about this kind of work, or their dam 
wouldn't always have been a failure. For a 
day, the waters of the creek spread out like 
a lake and the boys had great fun splashing 
about in it. A day and a night at the longest, 
the water would stay shut up, and then, the 
next morning, the boys would get up to find 
that a leak had come in the dam and the 
waters in their swimming pool had gone out. 

"Yes, I know, little mermaid, what you 
want to ask about. I had a spell, too, of 
wanting very, very much to do something that 
I couldn't do. I heard the boys talk about 
'floating like a cork,' and it was more than I 
could stand. If they could float, I could, and 


138 


IN THOSE DAYS 


I saw myself bobbing up and down on the 
water like a cork/' 

There was a little laugh. 

^'So one evening, after the dam was built, 
I put on an old dress and started for the creek 
alone. I met George and ventured to tell 
him my secret — I was going down to the pool 
to swim like a cork. He gave one of his low, 
chuckling laughs and said he would go with 
me. I waded into the water, thinking I had 
only to get where it was deep, and I should 
float. George stood on the bank and kept 
sa3dng, 'Come this way, come this way, it's 
better swimming.' I went his way until I 
reached the Deep Hole and down I went. I 
came up gasping and must have swum stand- 
ing, paddling with my hands as a dog does with 
its forepaws. In this way I kept up until 
George could reach me and pull me out. 
What did he say ? Well, his first words were, 
'I never would have told if you had got 
drowned.' It was a boy's way of comfort- 


IN THOSE DAYS 


139 


ing me/^ said Grandma, smiling; ^'whatever 
happened — sink or swim, live or die, the 
highest code of honor among youngsters in 
those days, was never to telV 

There was nothing specially exciting to 
Phoebe in this adventure. Had she not 
''floated like a cork'' since her baby days? 
She thought of the blue, rippling water of the 
bay down by her home, and her eyes had now 
the far-away look. love it," she said. 
''Water won't hurt anybody; you have only 
to paddle and you're all right. What was 
your next 'spell' ?" she asked, turning quickly, 
lest Grandma might escape five minutes be- 
fore eight. 

Grandma went on dreamily. "The hazy, 
lazy days of September came. Goldenrod and 
asters were in the meadow. Yellow and brown 
and scarlet leaves came floating down the 
stream. This was the season when seed cu- 
cumbers were ripe, and a new play by the creek 
began for Ruth Emmie and me." 


140 


IN THOSE DAYS 


What had cucumbers to do with a new 
game? Was Grandma mixing things up as 
they were in a dream? It must be so, for 
now she was telling about the little docks they 
built along the creek and the little boats they 



wood, pointed at one end, those were all we 
had, except in the fall. Then we had the 
kind of boats we liked best of all — boats 


IN THOSE DAYS 


141 


made out of the big, yellow seed cucum- 
bers/' 

''How?" was the wide-awake question. 

And Grandma told how the fattest cucum- 
bers of all were cut in halves lengthwise and 
the seeds and inside scooped out until each 
part would float and balance nicely in the 
water. Sometimes the boats were canal 
boats and were pulled up and down the creek, 
and sometimes they were sailboats, with 
sticks stuck up in them for masts and pieces 
of paper pinned on the masts for sails. Little 
twig dollies were the boatmen and loads and 
loads of stones and acorns — "I mean barrels 
and barrels of potatoes and apples, of course," 
explained Grandma, "were carried from dock 
to dock. Out and in, up and down, now 
fast and now slow, sailed the boats, the water 
rippling and washing against their sides in a 
way that delighted our hearts." Grandma s 
story was becoming a lullaby. 

Not yet would Phoebe be lulled to sleep. 


142 


IN THOSE DAYS 


''Tell me about when they upsetted/^ she 
coaxed. 

Grandma stroked the little hand. "My 
boat was upset once when it wasn't play," 
she said gently. "Ruth Emmie and I were 
sailing our boats, and Becky came down to 
the creek to clean sweet flag, as she did once 
a year. She worked and I played and there 
the trouble began. Finally she sent me to the 
house for another knife, and when I came 
back, my boat had been thrown out into the 
stream, and men and hay and dock were 
floating in all directions." 

"Oh, how could she. Grandma?" 

"I think I know now," said Grandma. 
''Becky had never been a little girl. Her 
life had been a hard one. She could not re- 
member or imagine what it was to be a child. 
And I — not one word did I say. I helped 
clean the sweet flag, and not a tear fell into the 
brook. I knew I must work and I did, and 
I knew, too, that I could make another boat 


IN THOSE DAYS 


143 


and dock and that I would, as soon as the 
work was over. That was the way we were 
trained in those days. 

''Right or wrong, said Grandma to her- 
self, "youngsters had to 'grin and bear' 
everything. It made good soldiers of us, per- 
haps." Perhaps ? Could there be any doubt 
of what some kind of training had done, or of 
the kind of soldiersTt had made, as one looked 
at the strong, quiet face of the grown-up lit- 
tle girl of long ago ? 

"Pd rather be a sailor than a soldier," 
was the grumbling comment. 

"Soldier or sailor or whatever you may be, 
somehow or somewhere, two lessons you must 
learn — one is, 'be brave and say nothing'; 
the other, 'obey and say nothing.' Learn 
these lessons, and you will be happy. 

"Now one more glimpse of the creek, and 
then we'll leave it to go on and on forever. 
The days of the ripe cucumber passed, and 
then what came next ? Winter, winter every- 


144 


IN THOSE DAYS 


where — in the air, nipping our noses, on the 
ground, nipping our 'tosies,' up in the sky, 
shaking down feathers, day after day, day 
after day, until the fields were covered with 
a snow-white blanket three feet thick. Then 
day after day the sun shone, little by little 
the snow packed. A cold night came, and 
one morning, we woke up to find that the crust 
would bear us up. In a twinkling, we were 
through the orchard and over the meadow, 
skimming and skipping, slipping and sliding, 
until the creek was reached. We didn't 
know it. It was like the face of a stranger. 
Drifts hung over the banks, and the water was 
hidden by a sheet of ice. It was so still, too, 
but we heard it — the same little tinkling 
voice — as if it were far away. We had no 
skates in those days, but we understood slid- 
ing perfectly. A quick, hard run of a few 
feet and then a long slide on the ice, another 
run and another slide, and in this way we trav- 
eled long distances. 


IN THOSE DAYS 


145 


Then came the white night — a night 
when the moon was white, all the earth white, 
and Cousin Loreny made us glad again. Day 
after day and night after night were pretty 
much the same on the old farm, until Loreny 
came, and then there was a change. One 
glance from her bright eyes to-night, out on 
the white orchard and meadow, and a frolic 
was planned such as seldom came to us. It 
was only a slide on the creek in the moonlight, 
but oh, the excitement of it ! The joy there 
was in simply getting ready, in the race across 
the frozen crust, and then the long, long slides 
on the frozen creek ! I could not run fast on 
the ice nor slide far, alone, but to-night Peter 
and Loreny — '' 

''The two Santa Clauses,'' some one mur- 
mured. 

Grandma nodded — " one took one hand and 
the other the other hand, and I had the longest 
slide of my life, and they the happiest of theirs." 

Grandma laughed. She was looking out 









B 



X 

.V 



146 



IN THOSE DAYS 


147 


of the window and talking to somebody on the 
balcony. ''I didn't know, as I slid and slid, 
that I was the link between two bashful peo- 
ple, and that finally, when I was too tired 
to slide any longer, Peter did the bravest act 
of his life." 

''What, Grandma?" 

"He gave his hand to Loreny, and they took 
a long slide together." 

Somebody out in the night smiled. Dear 
hearts of long ago ! The simple taking of her 
hand — how much it meant in those days ! 
How true it was, what Grandma was saying 
now — "If people only knew that it isn't the 
'muchness' of what is said and done that 
makes another happy. A touch of the hand, 
a slide on the ice, a walk over the frozen crust, 
a word, perhaps, and two persons knew they 
were to walk together through life." 

"Is that all?" a sleepy voice asked from 
the pillow. 

" All for to-night. Good night." Two little 


148 


IN THOSE DAYS 


arms were clasped tightly around Grandma's 
neck, and all was quiet for a few seconds. 

''You did have such good times when you 
were a little girl. I wish — I — had been — 
alive — when you — were little," were the 
last words. For a minute, the eyes were wide 
open, as if they saw meadow and orchard, wide- 
spreading tree and tinkling creek. Suddenly, 
their work done, the "peepers" closed, and a 
little craft drifted swiftly away to Shadowland, 
where Grandma's stories are lived and not told, 
and where they are never ended with "Good 
night, " but always with " Good morning. " 



following pages contain advertisements 
of a few of the Macmillan publications on 
kindred subjects 


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